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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25193290">Play it Again, Songbird</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/siderealOtaku/pseuds/siderealOtaku'>siderealOtaku</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(but he gets better), Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Fae Curses, First Kiss, First Time, Fix-It, Friends to Lovers, Lots of Bad Songs and Poetry, M/M, Minor Triss Merigold/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Outdoor Sex, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Rimming, Romantic Emotional Sex, Singing, Switch Geralt, Switch Jaskier, cursed geralt, way more fluff than angst</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 08:56:18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>19,352</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25193290</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/siderealOtaku/pseuds/siderealOtaku</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Geralt finds himself cursed to encounter terrible bards singing horribly inaccurate songs about him. Will the tricky Fae curse finally get him to admit his true feelings to the only bard whose songs he actually wants to hear?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>359</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Abby's Witcher Collection, Geraskier Midsummer Mini Bang</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Overture: Midsummer's Eve (sing out your sacred song, O bard)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is my entry for the Geraskier Midsummer Mini Bang. It's also my first ever fic for this pairing, so I'm so excited!</p>
<p>Many thanks to: </p>
<p>-the organizers of the Midsummer Mini Bang <br/>-my FANTASTIC beta, Bianca (biancarambles on ao3, fire-and-sass on tumblr) for ever thorough and detailed edits, and endless perseverance in the face of my constant misuse of commas<br/>-the artist assigned to this fic, leavemecryingdandelion on tumblr, who created the BEAUTIFUL piece of knitted artwork which accompanies this piece (seriously, go check their stuff out, they're super talented) <br/>-every single Discord friend who has had to listen to me talk about this fic way too much for the past several months</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It takes Jaskier a frankly embarrassing amount of time to realize that the crowd listening to his music is not human.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's Midsummer's Eve, and, somehow, the bard has stumbled across one of the thinning lines between "normal" and "not quite". Because he's dancing and playing his lute inside a ring of standing stones that he could have </span>
  <em>
    <span>sworn </span>
  </em>
  <span>just a moment ago had been an innocuous-looking circle of pale-stalked mushrooms. Because the people watching him aren't </span>
  <em>
    <span>people, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but shadowy forms which catch and sparkle at the very edges of his vision, who do not clap or cheer but ring out their praises like church bells.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stands among the Fair Folk, and</span>
  <em>
    <span>, </span>
  </em>
  <span>despite his decades of traveling alongside a witcher, the bard has absolutely no idea as to how he might manage to get himself out of this particular situation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So Jaskier plays.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He strums his lute and he sings, and he closes his eyes and tries to pretend that he's playing for a regular human audience in a regular tavern. Jaskier sings and Jaskier plays and the Midsummer sun hangs low and heavy in the sky on this Midsummer's Eve, the longest day of the year.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sings every song in his repertoire: standards he'd learned at Oxenfurt alternating with compositions of his own making. (To his surprise, it turns out that even the Fair Folk themselves are fond of "Toss a Coin," as they ring out their bell-like laughs-claps-voices in tune with each catchy chorus.) When he has exhausted nearly every piece he knows and they still demand more, the bard reaches deep into the dusty corners of his memory. He plays military marching chants and simple farmer's tunes and lullabies that the Lettenhoves' nurse used to sing to him when he was still but a baby who everyone thought was destined to grow up a viscount.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He plays and he plays and he </span>
  <em>
    <span>plays, </span>
  </em>
  <span>long past the point when his fingers would have tired, but the magic of Midsummer's Eve and the fairy circle gives him strength, and Jaskier plays on.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Play us something from your heart," </span>
  </em>
  <span>demands one hushed bell-voice as the sun at last begins to slip below the horizon.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Yes, play us a song of love," </span>
  </em>
  <span>another rattles. </span>
  <em>
    <span>"Oh play, bard, play," </span>
  </em>
  <span>ring several in achingly perfect harmony.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And so Jaskier plays for the Fair Folk the one song he has never yet dared to debut before an audience: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Her Sweet Kiss. </span>
  </em>
  <span>The bells go silent as each and every faerie in the ring stops to listen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When the echo of the last note has faded away into the heavy, twilit silence, a bell-voice even deeper and richer than the others addresses Jaskier:</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"You have played well for us, bard, and entertained us long this Midsummer's Eve. We could give you any gift you desire, in return. Lovers in your bed? Gold? For your name and your voice to be known across the Continent? To be beloved all 'round the world as the bard with the voice sweeter than a songbird?"</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier laughs, rather forgetting for a moment exactly who (or what) he is addressing. "You should tell that to this one fellow, old traveling companion of mine that I parted ways with a while back. Once, I asked him what he thought of my singing, he had the gall to describe it as 'a pie with no filling!'"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The bard had not known until that precise moment that the ringing of bells could sound so </span>
  <em>
    <span>angry. "What is the name of this fool who refuses your gift freely given?"</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He stammers it out, as though compelled: "G-geralt. Of...of Rivia. You know, the White Wolf. The witcher."</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Let Geralt of Rivia, refusing a taste of your 'fillingless pie,' find himself unable to be sated, no matter at which table he sits, which feasts he attends. Let him lose what he did not know he had." </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"That would be nice, wouldn't it?" asks Jaskier. "And now, my, er, good Lords and Ladies, I find myself growing tired...."</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Farewell, human bard. Thank you for your gift."</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>There is one last chiming chorus of bells, and Jaskier stumbles out of a completely ordinary circle of mushrooms, dazed and exhausted, fingers bruised and bloody but already forgetting </span>
  <em>
    <span>how </span>
  </em>
  <span>they had come to be so.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He forgets. He moves on. He travels.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Midsummer's Eve is over  - but the wish has been made, and the damage has been done.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. First Movement: Late Summer and Autumn</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Geralt had never realized before just </span>
  <em>
    <span>how many </span>
  </em>
  <span>bards there were on the Continent.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he had been traveling with his...with </span>
  <em>
    <span>the </span>
  </em>
  <span>bard, they had occasionally encountered one of his fellows in a tavern or inn. A short, whispered conversation between Jaskier and the other would ensue, and one troubadour or the other would go find another place to play that evening. (He realizes now that it had almost always been the other who had left, while they had stayed. Traveling with a witcher had probably given Jaskier a significant amount of leverage when it came to those arguments.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But now, with no constantly prattling poet riding at his side, Geralt seems to find them </span>
  <em>
    <span>everywhere. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Every inn he stayed at seemed to have one stationed in the common room, playing for coin. He briefly traveled with a merchant caravan which happened to be going in the same direction, only to quickly realize that no fewer than </span>
  <em>
    <span>three </span>
  </em>
  <span>bards were attached to the procession. He'd parted ways with the caravan after only three days, even though the merchants had begun to drop not-so-subtle hints that they were willing to pay good coin for a witcher bodyguard for the rest of their journey. For the sake of all the gods, even </span>
  <em>
    <span>pleasure houses </span>
  </em>
  <span>seemed to come staffed with a troubadour or two to "set the mood" while the ladies and gentlemen of the night brought in customers!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And it wasn't just that the bards were </span>
  <em>
    <span>everywhere. </span>
  </em>
  <span>No, that would have been tolerable, if barely.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was that they were, to a man, utterly </span>
  <em>
    <span>terrible.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt had never considered himself to be a man with an ear for music. Kaer Morhen had not been a place of songs, and few villages would be comfortable with a witcher joining in the singing and dancing at one of their seasonal festivals. Before all this - before </span>
  <em>
    <span>Jaskier - </span>
  </em>
  <span>he had never thought of bards as anything more than occasional background music, as easy to tune out and as relevant to him as the chirping of summer cicadas.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But now, gods be damned, in this post-Jaskier world, he finds himself </span>
  <em>
    <span>listening. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Listening, and realizing that this bard's rhymes are painful, while this one trips and stammers over their words, while another plays a flute that's sorely out of tune and Geralt wonders how the woman herself cannot </span>
  <em>
    <span>hear </span>
  </em>
  <span>how shrill and squeaky she sounds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Worst of all, though, are the contents of the songs themselves.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It seems that he is incapable of encountering a single bard who performs anything other than insipid love poetry or dull, repetitive, seemingly endless "epics" that get everything about fighting and monster-slaying and adventuring entirely </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrong. </span>
  </em>
  <span>(</span>
  <em>
    <span>Like they've never actually camped a night in their lives, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Geralt thinks, and reluctantly admits to himself that, irritating as he had been, at least Jaskier had done </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span>). Even their attempts to stir up a bawdy drinking song torture Geralt's sensitive witcher hearing by attempting to rhyme "ale with foam" with "my lady love's bosom".</span>
</p><p>
  <span>X</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It isn't until the tavern with the watery ale and the half-spoiled meat and the rail-thin troubadour with the pimply face that Geralt realizes he must be cursed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I shall sing," squeaks the bard, who apparently performs under the stage name "The Magnificent Lute", "of a story I had the privilege of having recounted to me by a dear friend and colleague, a ballad of lost love and heartbreak."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And so 'Lute,' strumming a lute that was nowhere near as magnificent as the one Filavandrel had given to Jaskier, sang (or rather squeaked) what might actually have been the worst song Geralt had ever heard in his entire unnaturally long life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh to be the wind which catches your starlit hair</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Caressing as gently as all those maidens fair</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Spending years for your sake</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>What would it take</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>For you to acknowledge the whole affair</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh your corded thighs and your honey-dipped eyes</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The way you grunt and growl so wise</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Spending years for your sake</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>What would it take</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>For you to see my love through my disguise"</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Only years of training to control his body's every reaction stops his mouth from dropping open the minute the rather-less-than-magnificent singer finishes the second verse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The song isn't one of Jaskier's - he doesn't even consider for a moment that the bard could produce something so utterly </span>
  <em>
    <span>terrible - </span>
  </em>
  <span>but, unless there's some other man with "starlit hair" "honey-dipped eyes" and a penchant for grumbling and growling running around the Continent (and he's pretty sure there's not, unless Eskel or Lambert has suddenly decided to dye their hair....he didn't even </span>
  <em>
    <span>let </span>
  </em>
  <span>himself consider that it might have been a romantic ode to </span>
  <em>
    <span>Vesemir</span>
  </em>
  <span>), the song is about </span>
  <em>
    <span>him. </span>
  </em>
  <span>The tone-deaf bard has just warbled a desperately pathetic song of "love and yearning" discussing none other than he himself,The gods-forsaken </span>
  <em>
    <span>Butcher of Blaviken. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Geralt of Rivia.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn't finish his ale. The weak brew isn't worth hearing what parts of his body "Lute" might decide to sing about next. Instead, he slams down a few coins on the bar and leaves the common room as fast as he possibly can. Nobody questions him, likely thanks to the storm currently brewing across his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He meditates that night, instead of sleeping. It's not that the inn's bed isn't comfortable - the mattress is thin but relatively free of holes or suspicious stains. No, it's that the horrendous night has one final indignity left in store for him: </span>
  <em>
    <span>he has the damned song stuck in his head.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>X</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After encountering "The Magnificent Lute" and his over-poetic descriptions of various body parts, Geralt would be happy to just go back to meeting bad bards. However, it seems that the curse has decided to kick itself up a notch, because the very next inn an overly loud woman recites a poem that seems to consist entirely of an (utterly incorrect) list of his myriad scars and their locations on his body.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After that, he sticks to camping. After a week of sleeping on a pallet in the woods overnight, he feels like he would go up against multiple kikimora bare-handed if the promise of a good hot bath came at the end of it. But at least he hasn't heard any more of those damned </span>
  <em>
    <span>songs.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He runs across a traveling merchant who happens to be transporting a shipment of tubs to Oxenfurt. The man makes an irresistible offer - guarding him until he reaches his destination, in exchange for the use of a tub each night, filled with hot water drawn and boiled by one of the merchant's many assistants. As wary as he is, Geralt accepts. He figures that the small company of a single tub-merchant is unlikely to house a bard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Destiny isn't done with him yet. His elation lasts only a few hours. That night, hair washed and muscles loose from an absolutely glorious bath, he finds himself feeling cheerful enough to join the merchant around the merrily blazing fire.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Ah, master witcher, how kind of you to join us," greets the tub-seller. He points with one chubby finger to a dark-haired young man and woman, neither of whom Geralt had previously met. "I'd like to introduce Matthias and Hermes. They've been serving as apprentices of mine the past few seasons, but they've been chosen to study at the Academy at Oxenfurt. This isn't just a sales trip for me - I'm delivering them safely to the Academy, as well. 'Tis why I hired you, in truth - the Headmaster would be far from pleased if two of his most promising new students failed to show up at the start of term."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dread coils in Geralt's gut. "What will they be studying at Oxenfurt?" the witcher asks, even though he's pretty sure that he already knows the answer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Why, music of course!" The tub-merchant sounds far too delighted about such a dire proclamation. "In fact, they were inspired to walk the troubadour's path by none other than the great Master Jaskier, with whom our company briefly traveled last winter."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The witcher blinks his amber eyes. He supposed that he had known, in some sort of abstract sense, that Jaskier's reputation had been growing - </span>
  <em>
    <span>Toss a Coin </span>
  </em>
  <span>had seemed to follow him </span>
  <em>
    <span>everywhere </span>
  </em>
  <span>for a while - but he had never thought of him as someone who would be called "Great Master" or be considered worthy of inspiration.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe...maybe he </span>
  <em>
    <span>had </span>
  </em>
  <span>been the slightest bit harsh when he had criticized the other man's voice. It was certainly, well, </span>
  <em>
    <span>tolerable, </span>
  </em>
  <span>at least, compared to every other bard he had heard over the last few months.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Anyway, master witcher, I find myself respectfully asking another favor of you. Matthias and Hermes have set themselves to composing a piece to present to the Dean of Music upon their arrival, and have striven to emulate the style of Master Jaskier. As he is widely known to be a friend to witchers, surely you as well have heard him perform....might I ask you to..."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt doesn't let the merchant finish his question. Based on how his life has been going  recently, he knows there's absolutely no way he's going to get out of this. "Of course," he responds, faux-cordially, between gritted teeth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Matthias plays the violin while Hermes sings. Her voice isn't bad, and his instrument is only </span>
  <em>
    <span>slightly </span>
  </em>
  <span>out of tune, but the words....Sweet Melitele, the </span>
  <em>
    <span>words...</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Silken of locks, strong of form</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Like pissing on a honeysuckle blossom are his orbs</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Jaw like the cut of a mountain side</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Mane as pure as the avalanche that rushes down the side</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He battles with tongue like he battles with sword</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>but he'll take all your maidens as his reward"</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The song, he is distressed to find, consists of nothing more than this single "verse," repeated no fewer than four times until the pair </span>
  <em>
    <span>finally </span>
  </em>
  <span>seem to be satisfied. The apprentices end their performance with a deep double bow and Geralt forces himself to clap.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Splendid, are they not?" asks the merchant, who seems to have utterly forgotten that he had asked Geralt for his opinion about the composition.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The witcher realizes that this is the perfect time to begin prodding at and testing the limits of what he is increasingly more certain must be a curse of some sort. "What is the song about?" he asks the merchant, trying his best to keep his tone light and conversational.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead of responding himself, the tub-seller gestures for the two would-be-bards to answer the question.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It's our attempt to pay tribute to Master Jaskier for inspiring us," begins Hermes shyly. She looks to Matthias, who takes up the thread. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"He wrote so many songs in praise of witchers, so we thought...we thought to write about one ourselves."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The future trobairitz cuts him off, her words practically overlapping with those of her partner. "Except we'd never met one, er, until today, begging your pardon, good sir, so we're not sure...." Once again, she starts strong but quickly trails off, and it's up to Matthias to gamely finish. "...did we do alright?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It was...memorable," Geralt finally settles on. "It certainly emphasized that the witcher in question was, er, distinctive to look at?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hadn't been able to muster up anything more than faint praise, but it's somehow enough to set the pair's cheeks flushing and eyes glistening. "It's about Master Jaskier's muse!" Hermes practically shouts, seemingly buoyed by his "positive" response. "The White Wolf!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is the exact moment in which Geralt of Rivia realizes that he just might be dealing with something far stronger than a simple garden-variety hex. Something about the curse had made the future bards apparently totally unaware that the person they were singing about, their precious "Master Jaskier's" muse - well, </span>
  <em>
    <span>former </span>
  </em>
  <span>muse - was sitting right in front of them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In a normal, curse-less environment, the two would probably have been far too shy to sing </span>
  <em>
    <span>about </span>
  </em>
  <span>the White Wolf directly </span>
  <em>
    <span>to </span>
  </em>
  <span>the White Wolf, but some strong magic was arranging things </span>
  <em>
    <span>just so </span>
  </em>
  <span>that Geralt was, in fact, able to experience this awful song about himself. And every other awful song about himself on the Continent, if the past few months were anything to go by.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Someone, or something, definitely had it out for him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's at this point that Geralt admits to himself that the best thing to do at this point would be to contact a sorceress. However, he's not exactly on particularly good terms with any sorceresses at this moment in time, so the stubborn witcher decides to do the entirely unwise, unhelpful thing and attempt to break the curse himself.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Second Movement: Winter</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Geralt parts company with the tub-merchant the next day, claiming that "something urgent" had suddenly come up elsewhere on the Path. The man was less than pleased to hear that, muttering something about how it would be impossible to find another bodyguard for his precious apprentices and still make it to Oxenfurt for the beginning of the winter term. (When the man's dismissal of him becomes downright rude, and he agrees to pay the witcher less than half of the fee he had originally promised, Geralt feels significantly less guilty about having taken an extra bath early that morning, during which he had used up an entire bottle of chamomile oil.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Although there's still at least a good two weeks before the first frost of the year, Geralt turns Roach northwards and begins to ride towards Kaer Morhen. He was determined to figure out how to break whatever spell he was under, but he knew that he would never be able to do so if he kept getting distracted by all the horrible bards with their screeching instruments and whining songs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So he rides as fast as he can to the one place on the Continent where he can be sure there will not be a single bard in sight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or so he thinks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>XXX</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"This is Essi," Eskel shyly introduces the long-haired woman standing beside him. She is pale but smiling, with a soft, young face but a wise, level expression in her single visible eye. The eye is large and blue and barely leaves Eskel's scarred face even as she politely greets Geralt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That isn't the problem.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The problem is the instrument clutched in her long-fingered hand. The neck is longer and the base is squarer than the one Jaskier had used, but Geralt had traveled long enough with his former companion to recognize a lute in an instant.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You are a bard?" the witcher asks, even though he knows the answer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another voice, much louder and rougher, makes itself known as Lambert, the third of the Wolf School trio, breaks into the conversation. "'Course she is. And so's Val here!" He squeezes the shoulders of a slender, narrow-faced man about whom his arm is protectively wrapped. "You're an inspiration, White Wolf - we heard all about that bard of yours, and decided to get some of our own!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt sighs heavily. The curse, it seems, had followed him to Kaer Morhen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At least Vesemir, who never left the fortress these days, surely couldn't....</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Greetings, Geralt," the oldest of the witchers greets his long-absent protege. He stands at the top of the stairs, holding open the door to the Kaer's main hall. Behind Vesemir, a glimmer of warm hearth-light spills out from a room which, in the White Wolf's memory, had always been dim, cold and forbidding.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When a tall woman with a severe expression steps out of the door to stand beside Vesemir, Geralt understands why everything looked so </span>
  <em>
    <span>different. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Then Ciri screams "Geralt" and barrels into his arms and the strangeness briefly evaporates as his heart warms and fills with the sense of </span>
  <em>
    <span>home.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>XXX</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dinner at Kaer Morhen with so many guests is strange. He is used to long, quiet nights filled with much drinking and little conversation. Even Ciri's chattering had done very little to break the silence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But now, there are </span>
  <em>
    <span>people, </span>
  </em>
  <span>there are </span>
  <em>
    <span>questions, </span>
  </em>
  <span>there is </span>
  <em>
    <span>laughing </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>joking </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>camaraderie. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He learns that Eskel's companion is named Essi Daven, and that she hails from a town by the sea (and oh, how his heart aches when she describes the peace and tranquility of the coast). Meanwhile, Vesemir's bard is called Irina Renard, originally of Novigrad. Lambert's musically-inclined traveling partner, as it turned out, was none other than Valdo Marx, of Cidaris, the very troubadour Jaskier sicced a djinn against. Geralt stammers when he claims he's never heard of the man before, but is quite pleased to meet him, and desperately hopes that Valdo Marx hadn't noticed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After dinner, Ciri calls for music and Geralt's heart sinks like a stone. Even the presence of his Child Surprise fails to lift his spirits. Because he knows what is about to happen - the three bards will perform terrible songs, probably about </span>
  <em>
    <span>him, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and each off-key note will ring in his ears like the screams of a dying man.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He is wrong.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Essi and Irina perform a duet together - or, at least, he thinks they do. Because while he can clearly </span>
  <em>
    <span>see </span>
  </em>
  <span>the younger woman's fingers gently strumming her lute, and the elder's mouth move as she  sways from side to side, he cannot hear a sound. It is as if their voices had been stolen from them - but, by the way Eskel claps and Vesemir smiles, Geralt can tell that it is only </span>
  <em>
    <span>he </span>
  </em>
  <span>who cannot hear the women's performance. Only </span>
  <em>
    <span>he </span>
  </em>
  <span>who is left alone in silence, with nothing but the sound of his own slow heartbeat to fill his empty ears.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then Ciri, who had crowed something about "absolutely loving this song" and "please, </span>
  <em>
    <span>please </span>
  </em>
  <span>won't you play that one again," starts to sing along, and Geralt can’t hear a single sweet sound coming from his beloved daughter's mouth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He </span>
  <em>
    <span>has </span>
  </em>
  <span>to break this damn curse. And </span>
  <em>
    <span>soon.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>XXX</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He could, of course, hear Valdo Marx perfectly well.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Following the conclusion of Essi and Irina's utterly silent duet, the male bard had taken to the "stage" (actually, the bit of empty space closest to the roaring fire) for himself. He proceeded to recite a long poem, more spoken than sung, which seemed to have entirely to do with a competition between two troubadours during which "Valdominus the Magnificent" (described, rather revoltingly, as "handsome" and "magnificently virile") utterly trounced his opponent, "Dandelion."</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>His eyes twinkled blue</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But his words weren't true</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>To the women - a bore</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>They showed him....the door</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Brags about his elven lute</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But only his own horn he toots</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>As soon as he mentions "blue eyes" and "elven lute," Geralt realizes that the "rival" Marx is describing is none other than Jaskier. He tries to sit tight and smile, to pretend to enjoy the performance, for Ciri's sake if nothing else, but the next few lines render that impossible.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Claims to love a witcher</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But that's just because no woman would bed him because he can't itch her</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt stands without properly realizing that he's doing so. With no more than a brief hug to Ciri and a nod to his brothers in arms, he's striding - striding </span>
  <em>
    <span>purposefully, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he tells himself, because he is definitely not huffily </span>
  <em>
    <span>storming </span>
  </em>
  <span>- out of the hall and towards his own bedchamber.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tries to tell himself that it was because he simply couldn't tolerate Valdo's hideous excuse for poetry any longer - those last lines had completely abandoned any semblance of meter, and what sort of fool thinks "itch her" is an appropriate rhyme for "witcher" - but the well-shielded inner heart of Geralt knows that that isn't the real reason.</span>
</p><p><span>Jaskier</span> <span>loves </span><em><span>him. </span></em><span>Jaskier </span><em><span>loves </span></em><span>him.</span></p><p>
  <span>....Or was it "loved," now, after what had happened on the mountain?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he hadn't realized until </span>
  <em>
    <span>Valdo Marx, </span>
  </em>
  <span>of all the troubadours in the world, had "declaimed" (more like screeched) the words practically into his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hadn't realized until it was too late. Until he'd been struck down with a curse that would almost certainly render him unable to hear a single note from Jaskier's lips - well, that was, if Jaskier even wanted anything to do with him anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And what about him?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Does he love Jaskier?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>....He wants the curse broken, more strongly than he can remember wanting anything in a long, long time. He'd never been much for music, but, now that it is gone, he misses it fiercely. Wants to hear the gentle strum of a bard's fingers against a well-tuned lute. Wants to hear the voices of an entire village raised in joyous song as they thank him for defeating some monster or another. Wants to hear Ciri, his beloved little Lion Cub, trying out her voice as she learns once again to smile and celebrate, to rejoice and to sing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>More than anything, he wants - no, needs - to hear </span>
  <em>
    <span>Jaskier</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Needs his bard's sweet song back, twittering in his ear and echoing in the back of his brain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He would pay any price just to hear "Toss a Coin To Your Witcher" once more, even though he had long considered the tune the very bane of his existence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Is that love?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If it is, then Geralt of Rivia is well and truly fucked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>XXX</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Neither sleep nor meditation come easily to the White Wolf as he lies in his lonely bed at Kaer Morhen. His mind unable to calm, unable to clear, far too caught up in thoughts of curses and ballads and </span>
  <em>
    <span>Jaskier.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>It almost comes as a relief when, barely an hour after he had retired to his room, a knock sounds on Geralt's door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's Eskel. "Come down to the kitchen. Vesemir wants to talk to you." His brother pauses. "The bards and Ciri went to sleep," he adds, and it is then that Geralt realizes that he had been foolish if he had thought for one moment that he could hide the curse from his fellow witchers for the entire winter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As Eskel had promised, it was only himself and Lambert and Vesemir seated around the kitchen table - well, himself, Lambert, Vesemir, and several blessedly full bottles of both vodka and White Gull. Wordlessly, Lambert pushes a bottle towards him, and he accepts, sinking down onto an unoccupied bench with a grateful sigh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His mentor lets Geralt drain about a third of the bottle before encouraging him to speak. "Now, boy, are you going to tell us about that nasty magic that's clinging to you like the stink of sun-dried selkiemore guts?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt doesn't </span>
  <em>
    <span>want </span>
  </em>
  <span>to tell his brothers and the closest thing he has in this world to a father about the curse. Realistically, though, he knows that his fellow wolves are the best shot he has at figuring out a way to break the damn thing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So, fortified by a highly inadvisable mix of Gull and strong vodka, he spills the story. Admits that he'd parted company from Jaskier earlier that year, without sparing his own cruel role in all of it. When he admits what he had said to Jaskier on that mountainside, Eskel pats him comfortingly on the back and even Lambert lets out a low whistle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Harsh to the poor boy, weren't you," says the ever-blunt wolf. Geralt doesn't protest. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>had </span>
  </em>
  <span>been harsh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He goes on to tell them about the months that had followed. About the slow, steady realization that he was encountering an unusually high amount of terrible bards, and that many of those bards were singing songs about </span>
  <em>
    <span>him. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Reluctantly, he shares the story of the ill-named Magnificent Lute, and talks of the encounter with Matthias and Hermes, who had somehow managed to perform an entire ballad about him without realizing that the subject of their song was </span>
  <em>
    <span>sitting right there </span>
  </em>
  <span>the entire time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That's when I realized I was cursed," Geralt explains. "People are dumb, but nobody's </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>dumb."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stays silent, not really wanting to admit what had happened earlier that very night, but Vesemir gives him a stern look that brooks no argument. It has been decades since Geralt of Rivia was anything approaching a child, but the Old Wolf's steady gaze is still enough to set him nearly quailing in his boots.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And I thought....that I was only cursed to encounter </span>
  <em>
    <span>bad </span>
  </em>
  <span>bards, and that was bad enough, but then I got </span>
  <em>
    <span>here </span>
  </em>
  <span>and found that each of you had gotten yourselves a bard to warm your bed...."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hey! Essi...she doesn't....we don't...." Eskel was currently serving as living proof that the "witchers can't blush" rumor was patently false.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Mine does," responds Lambert, not even bothering to hide the smug tone in his voice as he tips his chair back, balancing on the back two legs like a disobedient child at dinner.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Luckily for all three of the younger witchers, Vesemir does not see fit to comment one way or the other about whether or not his relationship with Irina Renard was an intimate one. Instead, he encourages Geralt to continue while shooting wordless glances at Lambert until the dark-haired man reluctantly returns his chair to a more normal position.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Anyway, I'd been staying away from inns and taverns as much as possible over the past couple months, so I didn't realize it until I came here. When Essi and Irina performed earlier, and Ciri sang along with them....I could hear them. I couldn't hear </span>
  <em>
    <span>any </span>
  </em>
  <span>of them. Not even Ciri." Geralt is not given much to speech, and even less to repeating himself, but he needs his brothers and father figure to understand just how devastating that night's discovery had been.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eskel's face falls in obvious sympathy for his brother. He puts a heavy hand on Geralt's shoulder. Usually, the White Wolf would have brushed off such overtures towards comfort, hating the emotional vulnerability of it all - but this time, he lets the hand stay. It feels....nice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Could you hear Val?" Lambert asks, his voice unusually raw and unguarded.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"N-no, not at all." Geralt was a terrible liar, and his brothers knew it. Luckily, they didn't call him out on it. "B-but Ciri, uh, mentioned to me that he doesn't really seem to like Jaskier much, so...maybe that's for the best."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lambert, for his part, has the decency to look sheepish. "Probably true."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Thankfully, Vesemir puts an end to the topic of conversation. "Geralt," he says, tone surprisingly gentle. "Do you think....that your bard might have cursed you? After the two of you...went your separate ways?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt shakes his head so abruptly that he nearly smacks Eskel in the face with his snow-white ponytail. "No. He couldn't. He wouldn't. Jaskier's....he's not like that."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A wordless gaze passes between the other three witchers, one which Geralt does not catch. But all Vesemir says is: "We'll help you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The White Wolf still feels the curse lying atop his shoulders like a phantom weight, but his fellow wolves' promise brings a small smile to his face regardless. "Thank you, all of you," he says sincerely.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Between the four of them, they </span>
  <em>
    <span>have </span>
  </em>
  <span>to find a solution to the curse. And soon. After all, they had all winter.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Third Movement: Late Winter and Spring</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Geralt's brief burst of confidence quickly proves to be false.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The weeks stretched on, and the witchers studied and read, debated and searched. They pored through what felt like every single dust-coated tome in Kaer Morhen's quite sizeable library, searching for some sort of monster or demon which would be capable of casting such a curse. They come up with several answers, and then just as quickly discard each and every one of them, as none would be able to craft an enchantment quite so elaborate as the one which currently held Geralt in its clutches.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eskel, often with the assistance of an eager if inexpert Ciri, brews potion after tincture after solution, trying to chase the curse from Geralt's body. They taste disgusting, but he drinks each one down to the last drop. No luck.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lambert suggests a more physical cure, drags Geralt into the courtyard and sets about him with his silver sword. The silver does not burn or sting any particular part of his body, meaning that there probably isn't some sort of strange mark or focus serving as the source of his curse.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>(Geralt suspects that that particular 'attempted cure' was more for Lambert's benefit than his own, but he must admit that it's a relief to find he hasn't suddenly turned into a doppler or a demon or some kind of vampire. And Lambert </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>in a better mood that evening, joking with Ciri and even letting her practice a little with his silver, so he supposes it's all for the best.)</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A month into the winter, the White Wolf becomes so desperate that he even allows Vesemir to try out one of his infamous "folk wisdom" cures. In the middle of the night, the older witcher dresses him in a white robe and makes him sit on top of a gravestone until sunrise. At various points, he places a crown of bison grass on Geralt's brow, tucks blowball stems behind his ears, and draws complicated patterns on his forehead with the juice of mistletoe berries.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>None of them work. As morning comes, the old marching tunes Vesemir is presumably humming are as silent as they were the night before.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The sun rises, decorating the mountains around the Kaer with its warm light, promising a bright new day - but Geralt's spirits remain un-buoyed as he begins to feel a deep surge of true hopelessness.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>XXX</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The White Wolf tries his best to keep the truth of his curse from the three bards who are wintering at the Wolf School fortress. He forces a smile on his face during both Essi and Irina's silent performances and Valdo's horrific rhymes - all of which occur far too frequently, with a performance capping nearly each night, usually at Ciri's request.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He quickly learns exactly what the curse considers "music". He can hear others speak in rhyming words, but, if someone with actual talent performs, both their instrumental notes and their sung lyrics will be completely silent to his ears. Of the crew currently gathered in Kaer Morhen, he can hear only Valdo and Eskel, who has always been cheerfully aware that he is completely and totally tone deaf. Even Lambert and Vesemir can carry enough of a tune that Geralt only sees their lips moving when they can be encouraged to sing along with the words.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As strategy after strategy for breaking the curse is quickly proposed and fails just as quickly, Geralt once again begins to consider the question which Vesemir had asked him at the beginning of winter. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Could Jaskier have...?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>XXX</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>One night, buoyed by what is probably a bit too much White Gull, he decides to put that particular theory to the test. "Say," he interjects into the conversation, trying to sound casual although his throat feels as dry as a desert despite the alcohol, "do any of you know 'Toss a Coin To Your Witcher'?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Of course!" Essi brightens, her single visible eye practically sparkling with enthusiasm. "Of course I know that one! I know all of Jaskier's work - we studied together at Oxenfurt for a bit, actually!" (Once again, an ache shoots through Geralt's heart at the thought of how much of Jaskier's life has been lived without him - and how much </span>
  <em>
    <span>will </span>
  </em>
  <span>be, now that he has unambiguously told the bard to leave him alone)</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Irina and even Valdo admit that they've heard of it - the latter seems rather reluctant to play it, but, like everyone else currently staying at the Kaer, he is absolutely powerless to resist when entreated by Ciri.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>By the end of the first line of the song, Geralt realizes that the thing he'd feared the most was true. Geralt can't hear </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Not Essi, not Irina, not Vesemir, not Ciri. Not Eskel, singing along as he taps out the catchy beat with one booted toe. Not even Valdo, even though the White Wolf has no doubt that the stuffy, stuck-up bard is just as out of tune as always.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He can't hear a single word, a single note, a single </span>
  <em>
    <span>whisper </span>
  </em>
  <span>of the song which had saved his reputation and catapulted Jaskier to Continent-wide fame. He knows the lyrics as well as he knows his own name - </span>
  <em>
    <span>O valley of plenty, O friend of humanity, oh-oh-oh - </span>
  </em>
  <span>but, no matter how much he concentrates on the moving lips and strumming fingers of the performers, he hears nothing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There's no denying it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It's Jaskier.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It has to be.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There's no other explanation that could possibly make any </span>
  <em>
    <span>sense.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>XXX</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A week still remains before Geralt would usually set out from Kaer Morhen and return to the Path. Frost still lies on the ground, and the nights are still so bitter that even the extra blanket added to his bed does little to warm the witcher. Yet, he cannot bear to stay a moment longer, and so, one morning, he tries to sneak out, without saying goodbye to any of his brothers or their guests.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He should have known, of course, that such a thing was impossible - Vesemir, for all his advanced age, still has the sharpest ears and keenest intuition of any person Geralt has ever met. The Old Wolf meets him at the gate, Ciri at his heels, still rubbing the sleep from her eyes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You stopped trying to look for solutions," Vesemir says. "That night after you asked about the song. About your bard's song."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"He's not my bard anymore," replies Geralt bitterly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The girl he has come to think of as a daughter looks up at him, and the fire in her eyes is bright and fierce. </span>
  <em>
    <span>She'll make a damn good witcher someday, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he realizes with something like pride but also something like regret. "Are you leaving to break your curse, Father?" she asks him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt hadn't told her about the curse. He doesn't ask her how she had figured it out. She's a student of the Wolf School, after all, a pupil of wise old Vesemir just as much as he himself had been.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yes, Lion Cub," he tells her, kneeling down and pulling her into a tight embrace. "Yes, I am."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Are you going to find your bard?" Her voice is bright and filled with excitement. Of course. Ciri didn't just know Jaskier's songs, she'd almost certainly heard Jaskier perform. The bard had always been a welcome guest at the court of Cintra, even when the Witcher himself had no longer been so following that fateful banquet and the Law of Surprise.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"He's not..." Geralt tries to say, tries to give his daughter the same answer that he had given his father, but finds that he cannot. There's a long pause, silent except for the wind whipping around the corners of the Kaer and Roach's soft whickering as Ciri scratches her behind the ears. Then: "Maybe. If...if he wants to be found."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"When you see him, tell him to come visit. Tell him that I want him to sing for me again. If he remembers me."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I'm sure he remembers you, Lion Cub," the Wolf whispers into his daughter's hair. He holds her tightly for one more moment, and then, reluctantly, lets go.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Good luck," says Vesemir as he hands Roach's reins back to her rider.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He tries to smile, for Ciri's sake - but, privately, Geralt figures that he's going to need a lot more than luck if he ever wants to get back what he has lost.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>XXX</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After a month of searching, the Witcher isn't sure if the curse is keeping him apart or if Jaskier simply does not want to be found.</span>
</p>
<p><span>He's been to Oxenfurt. He's been to Novigrad. He'd spent an utterly stifling week in the company of the Countess de Stael and her newest bard, a simpering fellow with a lisp who compared his lady's cheeks, lips, bosoms, feet, and bizarrely even </span><em><span>eyes </span></em><span>to "flushed apples" in the course of a single song. He'd even visited Lettenhove, and had to restrain himself from punching the extremely snippy butler who informed him that the Viscount</span> <span>had officially disowned his son years ago, and didn't he </span><em><span>know </span></em><span>that it was a crime punishable by imprisonment to dare </span><em><span>speak </span></em><span>of Julian Alfred Pankratz within the Lord and Lady's hearing.</span></p>
<p>
  <span>The bard isn't in any of these places. People have heard of him, speak of him with great enthusiasm, noiselessly perform "Toss a Coin" or "Fishmonger's Daughter" or some new hit ballad which Geralt has not heard and may never hear. But the bard is never </span>
  <em>
    <span>there. </span>
  </em>
  <span>It's as though Jaskier has disappeared from the Continent entirely.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt finds himself near Vizima, recalls that King Foltest had never particularly cared for bards (unsurprising, when nearly every troubadour worth their salt had composed some sort of rude ditty about his, er, </span>
  <em>
    <span>relationship </span>
  </em>
  <span>with his belated sister), and decides to consult a sorceress.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It's not that he hasn't had the idea, previously, to ask someone with actual magical talent to have a look into his particular curse. It's just that there...aren't exactly many sorceresses on the Continent with whom he has anything approaching a cordial relationship. But he remembers Triss Merigold as being friendly enough, and the mere thought of a warm bed combined with a lack of headache-inducing bards is too tempting to resist.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Foltest turns out to be away on a hunt, but the King of Temeria's steward is quick to reassure Geralt that there is always a bed and a hot meal waiting for him in Vizima.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"After all," the man practically coos, bowing for the third time in a row since he realized just who he was addressing, "none in Temeria will ever forget the great service which you performed for our King. In fact, we have a troupe of performers staying at the court who have just debuted an epic poem detailing your battle against the..."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I'm just here to visit Sorceress Merigold," Geralt feels slightly bad interrupting the man, but he absolutely </span>
  <em>
    <span>cannot </span>
  </em>
  <span>handle such a "performance" right now. Visions of a warm bed and hot food fade as his shoulders sag and he grumbles:  "I won't be staying long."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Very well, master witcher. This way, if you please."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>XXX</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Geralt!"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her tone is enthusiastic enough, but Triss Merigold looks rather less than pleased to see him. She opens the door only a crack and peers out, the untamed cloud of her world-famous hair preventing the Witcher from seeing further into the room.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Did I come at a bad time?" he asks. "I came to seek your advice regarding a problem, but I can come back...."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"No, you didn't," Triss says at the same time that another, equally familiar voice from behind her says. "Yes, you did." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt cocks one snow-white eyebrow. Triss sighs, reluctantly pushing open the door to her chambers. "Well, I suppose you'd better come in then, Geralt."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Triss's room is surprisingly small and not particularly ornate, compared to what he would typically expect from a sorceress serving at court. The majority of the room is taken up by an absolutely enormous bed, piled high with blankets, pillows, and a tangle of flowing black hair.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The curse must be at work in all aspects of his life, because he has managed to arrive at the exact moment that Yennefer of Vengerberg is waking up in Triss Merigold's bed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wants to turn around and leave. Wants to get out of there before the situation gets any more awkward than it could possibly be. But he has come so far, and the sorceresses are his only remaining hope.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The witcher bows slightly to Triss, then more deeply to the violet-eyed woman still lounging among her bedsheets, not showing any particular inclination to get up or dress herself. "Sorceress Merigold. Yen...</span>
  <em>
    <span>Yennefer. </span>
  </em>
  <span>I know I am the last person either one of you wants to see darkening your doorway, but I need...."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Our help?" It's Yennefer who speaks - of course it is, she'd never felt any particular need to act shy or demure around him. "Melitele's </span>
  <em>
    <span>tits, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Witcher, has nobody told you that you </span>
  <em>
    <span>smell</span>
  </em>
  <span>?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>(Yes, someone had, some </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>bard</em>
  </b>
  <em>
    <span> had, telling him he smelt of death, destiny, heartbreak and heroism and hope....and some fool of a witcher who didn't yet understand what he had in front of him had insisted it was merely onions)</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I do not..." he starts, but bites off the words before he can finish. It's always been so </span>
  <em>
    <span>easy </span>
  </em>
  <span>to argue with Yennefer. There's affection between them, passion, but it's as volatile as it is powerful, hot enough to burn and soothe both. "I have bathed recently, but I can do so again, if my scent offends."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A smirk quirks the corner of Yen's full lips - remembering another bath, almost certainly, a marble tub in a steam-filled room and him finding himself entranced by every swoop and dip and curve of her. "Come, come, we both know that that's not what I meant. You've gone and gotten yourself cursed, Geralt. And unless I miss my guess, there's not anything Triss or I could do about it. That's a curse from the Fair Folk, and Triss and I unleashing the full force of our chaos against it would hardly nudge it askance, much less untangle the knot wrapped around you."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Triss holds her hand in front of his face, concentrating intensely, looking at his eyes, his hair, the curve of his lips as she tries to determine where the curse has attached itself to him. "Yenna's right," she says, finally, none too gently prodding at one of his ears. "The curse is here, but it's also tangled around your mind and your heart."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yen laughs, and Geralt's heart speeds up as it </span>
  <em>
    <span>still </span>
  </em>
  <span>does, all these months after finally admitting that they weren't right for each other. "What have you done to offend the Fair Folk, witcher? You're not the sort to spill their mead or split a spiderweb under your feet - though I </span>
  <em>
    <span>could </span>
  </em>
  <span>see you insulting their Queen by comparing her to a plain village woman. Or failing to live up to her expectations during a midsummer tryst, perhaps.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Even Triss snorts at that. Emboldened, Yennefer continues. “ No, I'm sure the real tale is much more interesting. Maybe even entertaining enough for me to consider forgiving your own offenses against me."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt isn't good with words - never has been. It's what had gotten him into this whole mess in the first place, really - not being able to simply </span>
  <em>
    <span>talk </span>
  </em>
  <span>about things with Yennefer and Jaskier, but instead  lashing out at them with anger that neither of them had truly caused.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The curse means that things must be beyond healing with the blue-eyed songbird, but Yen is </span>
  <em>
    <span>here, </span>
  </em>
  <span>in front of him, curled in Triss Merigold's bed like she belongs there (and perhaps she does - she certainly looks happier than he's seen her in a while, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>nobody </span>
  </em>
  <span>could miss the way Triss blushes each time she looks over at the other sorceress). He has a chance that he never thought would be presented to him, and he cannot bear to waste it now.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Allow me to apologize from the bottom of my heart, Yennefer of Vengerberg. I spoke cruelly to you after the dragon hunt, and I concealed from you information that was by all rights yours to know. Even if we were not meant for one another as lovers, my life is....is </span>
  <em>
    <span>less, </span>
  </em>
  <span>without you in it, Yen. And I would understand if you also wished to curse me, as another I spoke harshly to on that same day has chosen to do."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her violet eyes widen as, finally, Yennefer understands. "Your bard."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Not mine, any longer." To his surprise, the look in the sorceress's eyes is not one of smug superiority or satisfaction but a genuine sorrow. Yen takes no pleasure in his suffering.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I think it's time you told us the truth of this curse," Triss suggests. "Tell us everything."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I....cannot hear his songs. Even if another sings them, they fall silently upon my ears. Nor can I hear any music that would give my ears any sort of pleasure, but...." his voice is small, and the truth is hard to admit, but admit it Geralt does: "it is Jaskier's music that I miss the most. I...I can only conclude that it is he who has cursed me."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yen arches an eyebrow, gathering the blankets around her like a queen's cape. "And you wish to break the curse so that - what? You might once again hear some fetching trobairitz singing your praises into your ear?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"So that I can hear Jaskier again. I miss his voice. I miss </span>
  <em>
    <span>him. </span>
  </em>
  <span>I even miss that fucking 'Toss a Coin' ditty. I would give anything to once again hear him sing."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Both sorceresses fall quiet, seeming to respect how difficult it had been for the Witcher to admit that. Triss goes to sit beside Yennefer on the bed and the Aedirn sorceress strokes her long, slender fingers through Triss's abundant hair. They're well-matched together, Geralt thinks, Triss's stability balancing Yennefer's impulsiveness, Yen's disregard for custom slowly drawing Triss out of the shell of propriety.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He's not surprised to realize that he feels happy for them. Happy, and a little bit jealous that he doesn't have someone like that, someone who magnifies his good parts and smooths down his rough edges at once.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier could have been that person. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Was </span>
  </em>
  <span>that person, until....</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A long moment passes between the two sorceresses, a wordless conversation spoken only with their eyes. Finally:</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Oxenfurt," says Triss.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What?" Geralt admits his confusion.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yennefer picks up the narrative, her hands never once leaving Triss's hair. "Your bard will be in Oxenfurt for the Midsummer's Eve festivities. The most highly anticipated event is a singing competition. As the champion three years running, Jaskier has been invited to serve on the judge's panel."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A bright, shattering lance of pain pierces Geralt's heart. He hadn't even known that Jaskier had won a bardic competition the previous year, let alone the past </span>
  <em>
    <span>three. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Because he'd always been so damn </span>
  <em>
    <span>selfish, </span>
  </em>
  <span>never so much as asking the bard what he got up to during the months they weren't traveling together.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Never opening up. Never letting Jaskier in.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"As much as I wish it were true, I'm not simply taunting you or being difficult when I say Triss and I can do nothing to break your curse, Geralt," Yennefer explains, and her tone is surprisingly contrite. "The Fair Folk run by their own set of rules. But I...encourage you to consider the form in which your affliction has manifested itself. The Fae are a literal type, and they love to make the punishment fit the crime." Despite the gentleness in her voice, Geralt can see the beginnings of a smirk dancing at the corner of her lips. Yennefer is definitely appreciating the opportunity to play the role of the wise mystic delivering cryptic advice to the poor questant.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yen...Triss...I don't know how to thank you for this," Geralt begins, stumbling over his words as he is so often accustomed to.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Then don't." It's Triss who speaks this time. "Go and get your man."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"And leave us to far more pleasurable pursuits," adds Yennefer, rather unnecessarily, shooting the other sorceress a lascivious wink.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After that, Geralt has the decency to not tarry further. He bows deeply, then quickly turns around and shuts the door as fast as he possibly can. (Somehow, it's still not fast enough for his sharp witcher ears to miss the sound of what is unmistakably Yen pulling Triss back into bed to join her, a sound which brings a blush to the White Wolf's face until long after he's passed outside the walls of Vizima and left the amorous sorceresses behind.)</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>XXX</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He's glad that Triss and Yen told him about the festival a good month before Midsummer, because it takes nearly the entirety of that period to ride from Vizima to Oxenfurt. What's usually a fairly short trip is complicated by both the flood of people traveling in the same direction, eager to participate in the festivities, and the curse's repeated insistence on saddling him with the absolute </span>
  <em>
    <span>foulest </span>
  </em>
  <span>luck at every given opportunity.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He rescues a pair of well-dressed men from a horde of rotfiends. Of course, they turn out to be bards, and, furthermore, they decide to pay him in song rather than coin. He's tempted to just set off down the road and refuse their "generous" offer, but there's a slow-moving caravan in the way, and so Geralt is subjected to two high, shrieking voices unnecessarily emphasizing every other word while utterly failing to rhyme.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"And THUS did the ROT</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Surround US, SURROUND us, as WERE it the FILTH of the WORLD</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>And he CAME to our RESCUE, a humble SHINING SOUL like a SONG FROM ABOVE</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He exterminated the FILTH because BADNESS will always be ERADICATED by WHITE LIGHT</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Like THE white of HIS HAIR"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At that, he does, in fact, leave. He knows that it's rude (</span>
  <em>
    <span>Jaskier would have chastised him, had he been there) </span>
  </em>
  <span>but his sensitive Witcher hearing simply can't handle the constant shouting.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He's invited by a dwarf who vaguely remembers him as "Zoltan's friend" to share his campfire for the night. The White Wolf is in the middle of devouring a haunch of passably grilled deer when a hush falls over the previously merry group. He looks up, hand on the hilts of both swords at once, expecting to see a monster or a horde of advancing bandits or perhaps even a rogue Scoia'tel patrol, only to instead find that the assorted travelers had joined hands and were singing noiselessly, wordlessly together.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He's grateful that nobody expects a witcher to be the singing type, so that it's not exactly odd when he doesn't join in.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>An elven woman winks and throws a crown into Geralt's lap, and he realizes that they're singing "Toss a Coin". He turns away from her, telling himself it has more to do with refusing her implicit invitation than with hiding the persistent, painful stinging irritating the corners of his eyes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>(That night, he dreams of Jaskier, strumming a soundless lute, breathless words pouring from a noiseless throat. He moves closer, closer, stretching out a hand, trying to apologize, trying to tell Jaskier how he feels, about the curse, but the words from his own lips are as silent as the bard's, and dream-Jaskier turns from him as though he hadn't noticed that Geralt was there at all.)</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The next day, the Witcher turns Roach from the main road, trusting his steed along rutted tracks and ill-maintained side roads. The mare huffs at him to show her irritation, and in penance he spends an extra hour untangling her mane and grooming her coat until it shines.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He camps. He avoids other travelers. He eats only what he can hunt or scavenge for himself. For the first time since he had set out on the Path, he ignores notice boards, turns down jobs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He tries (fails) to put from his mind the noiselessly moving lips of every passing traveler as they joyfully belt melodies which Geralt's ears can no longer hear.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The Witcher rides to Oxenfurt wrapped in a choking, stifling blanket of silence.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Final Movement: Midsummer's Eve, Again (sing me out of your spell, buttercup)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Oxenfurt at Midsummer is a little bit like hell.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's as though the College of Music has flung wide its gates and ejected its entire population, students and faculty alike, out into the squares and alleys and parks and fields and taverns and inns and even the damned </span>
  <em>
    <span>brothels.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Everywhere there is music, or, at least, music as Geralt now experiences it: silence or screeching with absolutely no in-between.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He winds his way through the crowds, for once thanking rather than cursing the gods for people's tendency to move aside when they see a witcher coming. He manages to make his way through the city center quicker than he had hoped - although not quickly enough to avoid catching several snatches of what even the most generous of critics could barely call "songs". Few rhyme, all are out of tune, and a rather disturbing number seem to have something to do with him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt crosses through the main square, stopping only briefly to read a leaflet which confirms what Triss had told him: the singing competition will be held in the largest of the fields just outside the city.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Oh, a witcher's heart is like a rock</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>So we only want him for his..."</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He briefly considers taking a room at one of the inns, but he has barely stepped inside the Admiralty when he hears a reedy, practically eardrum-shattering voice rather inaccurately extolling his "charms".</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"If you take the White Wolf as a lover</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You'd best like getting bitten all over</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And if he ravishes you while in his cups</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He might leave you with a litter of pups"</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>After that, he abandons the thought of finding himself a room. What's the point, anyhow? He's here to find Jaskier, not participate in the revelry. He hasn't really planned out what he's actually going to </span>
  <em>
    <span>do </span>
  </em>
  <span>once he's apologized to the bard, but "leave the city immediately and get back on the Path away from all these awful bards and find a nice quiet place to have Jaskier to himself" sounds pretty appealing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course, the witcher realizes, that's assuming Jaskier will want to travel with him again. Maybe he'll refuse. Maybe he'll just break the curse and then see Geralt off with a "thanks for stopping by, see you never."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(</span>
  <em>
    <span>Or maybe, </span>
  </em>
  <span>whispers a traitorous part of his brain, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Jaskier will hate him so much that he won't even agree to help him break the curse at all.)</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>But he can't let himself think about that grim possibility. All that matters is finding Jaskier as soon as possible.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Treasure is gold and his eyes are gold</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Snow is white and his hair is white</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Heroes are scarred and he is scarred</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But wolves aren't white</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But this one is"</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, he pushes his way through a particularly thick part of the throng and makes his way to the field where the singing competition is to be held. (Luckily, there's a rather conspicuous banner declaring MIDSUMMER SINGING COMPETITION, or else even Geralt's usually savvy sense of direction might have failed him, leaving him lost among the endless crowds).</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There's a raised dais at the edge of the field, but it's blocked from even his sharp witcher eyes by a snaking line of what he assumes must be bards waiting to perform. As he shoves his way none-too-gently through, he realizes that he can hear more of them than not and feels a momentary stab of sympathy for the competition's judges.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Oh White Wolf, White Wolf, lead me to your lair..."</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He can make out three figures sitting at a table atop the dais.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Oh if I had the Buttercup of Oxenfurt in my bed</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I wouldn't leave him like the witcher did"</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>One is a woman, dressed in robes so dark and severe that she can't possibly be a bard. He guesses that she must be some sort of dean or chancellor or other important figure at the Academy.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Forget the coin toss, and</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Slap your nearest witcher on the arse!"</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The second is an elderly man with a walrus-thick mustache, who looks on the verge of falling asleep as he listens to yet another subpar bard perform. (Geralt doesn't exactly blame him.)</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Green eyes are fine, blue eyes are divine, but yellow eyes are...."</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>And the third one is....</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Ladies and gentlemen, we shall now take a brief break from the competition to enjoy a performance by one of our honored judges."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>...</span>
  <em>
    <span>Jaskier.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span> The bard looks stunning. He wears a silk doublet of deep Midsummer-green, with buttons and trim the same cornflower blue as his eyes. On his head, tilted at a rakishly attractive angle, rests a woven crown of yellow flowers.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Buttercups, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Geralt realizes. </span>
  <em>
    <span>His very own flower. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Usually, buttercups don't bloom this late in the season - but, somehow, Jaskier has managed to find enough to weave an entire crown. It brings out the sparkle in his eye and the flush of his cheek, and erases any doubt which Geralt might possibly have had regarding whether or not he was in love with the bard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For he was, oh he </span>
  <em>
    <span>was, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and he hates the fact that it has taken harsh words and a full year of being cursed to truly admit it to himself - because how, possibly, could it be anything other than too late?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Applause greets the bard before he has even spoken a word or strummed a note. He bows, the crown of buttercups somehow not stirring from his brow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Play a song of love!" shouts one adoring fan. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No, play a song of the White Wolf!" insists another.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Peace, peace, my dear fans," says Jaskier, and Geralt had forgotten how sweet and rich the bard's voice was. His tones were so near to being music that Geralt is surprised that he can hear them at all. "I can fulfill both requests with a single ballad, if you would allow me to indulge myself with 'Her Sweet Kiss'?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The witcher isn't familiar with the song, but it must be a popular one, as the audience's applause reaches a truly thunderous pitch. "Yes, yes, give us 'Her Sweet Kiss'!" "Play for us, master bard, play!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier's long, talented fingers brush the strings of his lute, his lips form the first words of the song, and Geralt, as he had known he would, hears nothing but silence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's too much. He can't. He has to get to Jaskier, to apologize, to break this curse, to....</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The bard plays another song, and then yet another. He can guess that the second one must be "Fishmonger's Daughter" by the way that the audience stomps and claps along, while the third one seems to be another new piece, a slow and soft one judging by the speed of his fingers on the lute-strings.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bereft of Jaskier's voice, Geralt desperately tries to drink in every aspect of the bard's performance which he </span>
  <em>
    <span>can </span>
  </em>
  <span>enjoy. The gentle, curling movements of those long fingers. The slight upward curve at the corner of the bard's mouth. The way that the clearly new doublet clings to his form, its slight V-neck revealing a few tantalizing curls of rich, dark chest hair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even in silence, Jaskier is beautiful, but it's not </span>
  <em>
    <span>enough. </span>
  </em>
  <span>The bard's music is so much of what he is, and Geralt is surprised at the intensity with which he </span>
  <em>
    <span>needs </span>
  </em>
  <span>it, hot and vital and as essential to his continued existence as air.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Play 'Toss a Coin," several voices shout at once, whenJaskier has concluded the third song. Geralt's gut tightens - he's not sure if his heart can </span>
  <em>
    <span>take </span>
  </em>
  <span>not being able to hear the first song Jaskier had ever written about him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, someone else cries out "Stop that, you arse, you know he doesn't play that one anymore!" and the White Wolf feels his heart sinking into his stomach. Sorrow for how badly he has hurt Jaskier, how he has (irreparably?) damaged what they had outweighs any relief which he might have felt at not having to hear the song.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier's response to the insistent shouts is as gentlemanly as Geralt could have expected.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Ah, I'm afraid my throat is far too dry to sing any more songs right now. Let me take a break and fetch some water. Perhaps one of the other honorable judges can entertain you while the next round of entrants prepare to compete?" With several bows and even more waves, Jaskier exits the hastily erected "stage".</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One of the other judges - the old man with the thick mustache - stood up, bowed and began to recite a poem, something about the fall of Cintra. Geralt can hear it perfectly well, but he doesn't pay attention. His mind fills with a singular thought: </span>
  <em>
    <span>got to find Jaskier got to talk to Jaskier got to get Jaskier's help JaskierJaskierJaskierJaskier...</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He rounds the corner of the stage (once again pushing his way less-than-politely) through the crowd. The witcher spots the bard almost immediately, standing in front of a small stall offering cold drinks, accepting a cup of water from the woman manning the booth with a flirtatious wink.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a single moment, he stops, he stills, he </span>
  <em>
    <span>watches</span>
  </em>
  <span>, drinking in the sight he has not seen in so long with as much greedy thirst as the bard gulps the proffered water. Jaskier's eyes, crinkled up in pure joy. Jaskier's body, vibrating with the energy he always seems to possess after a performance, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. The sweat plastering Jaskier's hair to the back of his neck. The single drop of water running down Jaskier's chin and along the endless line of his throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>How, with all the years that the bard had spent at his side, how in the name of all the gods had it taken Geralt </span>
  <em>
    <span>this long </span>
  </em>
  <span>to realize how much he loved the bard? How much he </span>
  <em>
    <span>wanted </span>
  </em>
  <span>him?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The witcher steps forward, clearing his throat to make his presence known. He knows he only has a few minutes to say his piece before Jaskier returns to judging the competition. But he needs the curse broken. Needs to hear that voice. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Now.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"Jaskier!" </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, fuck, why did I start by shouting his name like that, now it sounds like I'm demanding something of him.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The bard whirls around. His fingers tremble, and the cup nearly drops from his grasp. "Ger-</span>
  <em>
    <span>Geralt</span>
  </em>
  <span>?" </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh gods oh gods at least I can still hear his voice when he talks, I was scared I wouldn't even...</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"I um...You. I need. Er. I mean. I've got this curse, and I need....</span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>need...I need </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Un-curse me. Break it, damn it. I mean...I mean...gods damn it...I need you to sing for me, Jaskier!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The bard's gaze clouds, anger, hurt, confusion all marring his beautiful face.</span>
  <em>
    <span> "</span>
  </em>
  <span>Excuse me, Geralt, but I have no idea what you're rambling on about. But you have </span>
  <em>
    <span>no right </span>
  </em>
  <span>to come </span>
  <em>
    <span>stomping </span>
  </em>
  <span>in here without so much as an </span>
  <em>
    <span>apology, </span>
  </em>
  <span>spewing some nonsense about curses or...or...or </span>
  <em>
    <span>whatever! </span>
  </em>
  <span>If you were trying to say that listening to my singing is like a curse, then what are you even </span>
  <em>
    <span>doing </span>
  </em>
  <span>here while I'm performing in the first place? Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a competition to judge." Without so much as a single word more, Jaskier shoulders his way past the stunned Witcher, barely pausing to return the half-drunk cup of water to the utterly confused vendor as he did so.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt turns, but it's too late. Jaskier is gone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's ruined it. He's ruined everything.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The curse will never be broken - and worse, Jaskier will never forgive him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unless...</span>
</p><p>
  <span>An idea comes to him, suddenly, as though whispered into his ear by a voice just slightly out of range of even his sensitive witcher hearing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>True, Jaskier had responded so harshly because of the things Geralt had said to him on the mountain after the dragon hunt. But the bard had </span>
  <em>
    <span>also </span>
  </em>
  <span>reacted with confusion and hurt because he couldn't possibly believe that Geralt would genuinely enjoy or compliment his singing, or miss it when it was gone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A fair opinion, Geralt reasoned, remembering with an ache in his chest the exhaustion-addled words he had spit out on a riverside outside Rinde: </span>
  <em>
    <span>"Like ordering a pie, and finding out that it has no filling."</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Asking Jaskier to help him break the curse won't be enough. He'll have to show the bard (the bard he misses so badly, wishes so sincerely were </span>
  <em>
    <span>his </span>
  </em>
  <span>again) just how much he truly loves and appreciates the music he makes - especially the many songs he had written for </span>
  <em>
    <span>him.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>And Geralt can think of only one way to do that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's going to be embarrassing, he knows, and might just undo all the careful repairs to his reputation which Jaskier's songs had done over the years - but it just might possibly work.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Music - good, true music, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Jaskier's </span>
  </em>
  <span>music - had been taken from his life. He'd looked through spell books and bestiaries, consulted witchers and sorceresses, undergone every sort of ridiculous folk remedy under the sun, and even begged Jaskier to do something about it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But there's one thing he's never done. One person he's never thought to turn to to bring music back into his world.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wordlessly, only his years of witcher training hiding the fact that his entire body wants to shake like a leaf from pure nerves, Geralt steps into the line of bards preparing to perform.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There's eight performers ahead of him, then six, then three. Some he can hear; most he cannot. After each performance, the judges provide a brief commentary - the woman and the older man generally fairly harsh and strict, Jaskier as sweet and kind as ever, his words a soothing balm following the sometimes scathing put-downs from his fellow master bards.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt can focus on little of what's happening, his heart thumping at practically normal human speeds in his chest at the thought of what he's about to do. He focuses on Jaskier's voice when the bard delivers his commentary, the smooth and perfect way his mouth forms each and every word. (He imagines, if he's being honest with himself, that mouth pressed against his own.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then the young woman in front of him, an Oxenfurt student in a colorful costume he hadn't been able to hear, finishes her song, and the two other judges actually seem to give her a bit of praise as she presumably advances to the next round of the competition...and then Geralt stands at the front of the line, the next to perform.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once again, Jaskier's eyes widen when he sees Geralt. The witcher can't bear to see the emotions which flash across the bard's face for the second time that day: lingering hurt, a bit of anger, as though he feels that Geralt is mocking him by standing there among the competing bards, but most of all sheer, utter </span>
  <em>
    <span>bafflement.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>It is not Jaskier but the black-clad woman who speaks. "Standing room for the general audience is that way," she says, not unkindly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"N-no, I...I know, I..." Again, the words stick in his throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She cocks an eyebrow. "You do not seem to be a bard, and this is a music competition for bards," she prompts, clearly ready to be done with this foolishness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"N-no, I'm, I'm not, but...." He takes a deep breath. </span>
  <em>
    <span>This is his last chance, his </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>only </em>
  </b>
  <em>
    <span>chance, to possibly be rid of the curse once and for all. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Focusing on that, on </span>
  <em>
    <span>Jaskier, </span>
  </em>
  <span>on the strange new feelings he has for the bard, (or had it been that they were always there, but only recently given a name) Geralt at last finds his voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You're right. I'm not a bard. But there's someone who is, someone who's very important to me." He looks Jaskier straight in the eye, so that the master lutist cannot possibly miss his meaning. "And I messed up, and I said some things that hurt him, but, even worse than that, I didn't appreciate the songs that he wrote for me. He wrote all these beautiful songs about how I was a hero and a friend to humankind and they...they made people</span>
  <em>
    <span> like </span>
  </em>
  <span>me, for the first time, and I didn't appreciate that." It's the most words Geralt can remember stringing together in quite a long time. He can only hope they had gotten through to their intended recipient.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Sir, this is a competition, not a...." the woman begins, but, miracle of miracles, Jaskier holds out a hand to silence her. "Let's hear him out," he says, looking at Geralt with guarded confusion but less hurt and anger than before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The witcher clears his throat. "My name is Geralt of Rivia. Jaskier called - calls - me the White Wolf, and this is the first song he ever wrote about me."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Drawing in one final steadying breath, Geralt begins to sing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His singing voice is nothing special, far too rough and raspy to ever be considered pleasant to the ear. He's not quite tone-deaf, but he hasn't sung in a long time, so he finds it more than a little difficult to stay on pitch, even though he knows this particular song as well as he does his own name.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can, of course, hear himself perfectly well - he's a good deal worse than even a handful of the horrendous bards he'd been cursed to encounter. For the first time since they parted on the mountainside, the song he had missed most of all reaches his ears, coming from none other than his very own indifferent, gravelly bass.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>When a humble bard</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Graced a ride along</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>With Geralt of Rivia</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Along came this so-ong</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He can see Jaskier's eyes widen - with fear? Shock? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hope? </span>
  </em>
  <span>- and from that he draws his strength. He continues to sing, slightly more confident now, and dares a glance around at the stunned crowd.</span>
</p><p><span>Almost instinctively, Geralt spreads his arms and makes a beckoning motion to the crowd. It's a gesture he has seen Jaskier do hundreds if not thousands of times, playing this very song at taverns and inns across the Continent, encouraging his audience to sing along as the piece's notoriety grew and more and more people came to love it. Came to love the song, and Jaskier, and for the first time, to treat</span> <span>Geralt himself with something other than fear and disdain.</span></p><p>
  <span>At first, nobody joins in. It's understandable, he reasons - they're confused as to what is happening, they're a little intimidated by the idea of singing together with a witcher, but he had </span>
  <em>
    <span>hoped...</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>And then he reaches the chorus, and his confidence grows slightly as he begins to sing those devilishly catchy words, that refrain which had been stuck in his head for most of the past several years if not decades. Hesitatingly, voice by voice, wavering at first but growing stronger with each note, the watching crowd begins to sing along.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Toss a coin to your witcher</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>O valley of plenty</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>O valley of plenty, oh-oh-oh...</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>As he moves into the second verse, what had been a few voices singing hesitantly together swells, becoming a wave, a crest, a thundering tide of music. Jaskier's eyes are still wide, but now the emotions shining in them are something else altogether: shock and delight and joyful surprise and Geralt is pretty sure he sees the beginnings of a blush tinting the master bard's cheeks as his witcher serenades him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Somewhere in the middle of the second verse, Jaskier begins to strum along on his lute, his fingers stroking the strings almost unconsciously as he plays along to the oh-so-familiar tune. Geralt can see that he's getting through to the bard, that his performance is moving him, but he needs </span>
  <em>
    <span>more, </span>
  </em>
  <span>just that little bit </span>
  <em>
    <span>more. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Needs to hear him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He reaches one of Jaskier's favorite parts of the song, the high, swooping notes of "</span>
  <em>
    <span>he's a friend of humanity, so give him the rest," </span>
  </em>
  <span>where the bard so loved to show off his impressive vocal range with a confident belt. Then Geralt makes the "sing along" gesture again, but this time directed at Jaskier, holding his arms wide open and inviting towards the bard, beckoning, beckoning, hoping against hope that Jaskier understands and </span>
  <em>
    <span>accepts.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>For a moment, he's silent, only his fingers absent-mindedly dancing across the strings of his elven lute, and then...</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt reaches the refrain once again, and Jaskier stands up, strides forward to the edge of the stage, and begins to sing along.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Toss a coin to your witcher</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>O valley of plenty</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>O valley of plenty, oh-oh-oh</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Toss a coin to your witcher</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>A friend of humanity</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Somewhere, hidden between the lines of the song, Geralt swears he can hear a voice like the ringing of bells whispering in his ear:</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"A gift, once rejected, has now been reciprocated and freely given in return."</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>And Jaskier opens his mouth to sing, and Geralt </span>
  <em>
    <span>hears him.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>
      
    </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>His voice is twice, three times, no, a </span>
  <em>
    <span>hundred </span>
  </em>
  <span>times more beautiful than the witcher remembers. High and sweet one moment, then low and raspy the next, paired with a flirtatious wink that's usually sent to some lucky audience member but this time is aimed directly at </span>
  <em>
    <span>Geralt. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Even the White Wolf's own rough voice sounds almost pleasant when entwined in harmony with the bard's beautiful melody.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier is singing and strumming his lute and dancing along all at once, and the audience is really getting into it now, hearing the master bard perform his best-known hit for what must be the first time in at least a year. The song should technically be over by now, but they sing the chorus over and over again, louder and louder each time, clapping and stomping along. Even though this is a bardic competition on an open field rather than a performance in the common room of the inn, a few members of the audience get into the spirit of the piece, throwing crowns and florins at Jaskier's feet and even a few at Geralt's.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And the witcher can hear every single voice raised in song on that beautiful Midsummer field, from the coarse to the sweet, the untrained to the perfectly pitched, and his ears practically rejoice in the sheer beauty of experiencing music once again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt and Jaskier lock eyes on the next repetition of "</span>
  <em>
    <span>friend of humanity" </span>
  </em>
  <span>and Geralt sees exactly what he's looking for in the bard's - no, in </span>
  <em>
    <span>his </span>
  </em>
  <span>bard's - intense, gorgeous gaze.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, after what must have been something like ten choruses of "Toss a Coin," Jaskier puts down his lute and bows, and the audience breaks into thunderous applause. For a moment, Geralt wonders if he should bow as well, but then he has a better idea.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Looking Jaskier straight in the eye, he once again raises his arms and beckons the bard in his direction.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier, without the slightest bit of hesitation, jumps from the stage, practically sprints to cover the small distance between them, leaps into Geralt's arms, and kisses him firmly and passionately on the lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a brief moment, the world narrows, and Geralt forgets that they are standing in the middle of a still stomping and applauding crowd. There is only him, and Jaskier, and Jaskier's mouth on his, and the curse is gone and Jaskier is in his arms and, for the first time in all his many years on the Path, true love has won the day and everything has come out </span>
  <em>
    <span>right.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The bard kisses with the same intensity he devotes to every task, mapping Geralt's mouth with his tongue, twining his fingers through the witcher's snow-white mane (and he tugs ever so slightly and </span>
  <em>
    <span>oh, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Geralt </span>
  <em>
    <span>likes </span>
  </em>
  <span>that, and that's something they're going to have to explore that </span>
  <em>
    <span>much </span>
  </em>
  <span>more thoroughly later), his eyelashes fluttering against Geralt's skin and his hands clutching, grasping, holding like he's never going to let go. Geralt realizes - or perhaps finally allows himself to believe - that Jaskier has been waiting for this just as long as the witcher himself has.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They start out simply standing, Jaskier tilting his chin up to compensate for the two or so inches Geralt has on him. However, in a move that surprises the witcher and the still-watching crowd both, the bard practically </span>
  <em>
    <span>leaps </span>
  </em>
  <span>off the balls of his feet and wraps his long, gorgeous, lean-muscled legs around Geralt's waist.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite the image he sometimes tries to invoke while performing, Jaskier is far from a small or slight man. Years of traveling alongside the White Wolf have put muscle on him and his skill as a performer means that he carries himself with upright, square-shouldered confidence. A normal, un-mutated man would not have been able to lift Jaskier, at least not without significant struggling, but Geralt grasps the bard's strong thighs and seamlessly pulls him in closer, not breaking their kiss for a second. For perhaps the first time in his long, long life, the White Wolf reflects on how grateful he is to possess the strength of a witcher.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier breaks the kiss, flushed and panting. "So," he finally says, after taking a long moment to catch his breath. "You said something earlier about being under a curse?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'll tell you later. Jaskier, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. About the mountain, about calling you a pie." Here at last, with his bard held tightly in his arms, Geralt finds the words that he had struggled to say.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I know, my dear witcher. It's okay. It's okay."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I've missed you. A lot. Travel with me again?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Geralt, </span>
  </em>
  <span>of course I will."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He could leave it there, he knows, but there's still one thing more he wants to say.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I love your voice, your singing. And I love </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I know, you great daft wolf. I love you too. Always have." For once the one at a loss for words, Jaskier compensates for his sudden tongue-tied state by tightening his arms around Geralt's neck and pulling the witcher in for another kiss.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They exchange a second kiss, then a third, then a fourth, alternating swift, bruising pecks with languid, unhurried explorations of each other's mouths and tongues. Lost in the haze of passion, both men have difficulty remembering that they are still in the middle of the Midsummer bardic competition. In fact, they might have continued contentedly snogging, lost in each other and blissfully ignoring the crowd around them, had the female judge not cleared her throat forcefully.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"As it is nearing dusk and the Midsummer bonfires have begun to burn, we will conclude the competition for this evening. Judging shall resume in the morning. Thank you all for your attendance."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The witcher's sharp ears pick up a series of questions from the older judge, clearly utterly confused regarding the current goings-on. "Is that white-haired gentleman an actual contestant? Do we need to assign him a score? I worry that Master Jaskier might show bias..." Geralt can't help himself, and finds himself letting out a genuine</span>
  <em>
    <span> laugh </span>
  </em>
  <span>against Jaskier's lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I don't have any rooms in the town. I was scared you wouldn't...." Geralt confesses, his tone a whisper.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"My quarters at the Academy are much too far away," the bard responds, rolling his hips insistently against Geralt's own, highlighting just how </span>
  <em>
    <span>urgent </span>
  </em>
  <span>the situation had indeed become. "It's Midsummer, everyone's busy celebrating, I'm sure we can find somewhere...."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Say no more," the White Wolf practically growls, shifting Jaskier into a bridal carry and heading towards the woods at the edge of the festival grounds. This time, he notices offhandedly, there's no need to push himself through, as the crowd parts eagerly for the two of them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The woods are a riot of green and gold, heavy with the essence of summer. The last rays of the sun dapple the forest floor at their feet. Birds and cicadas greet the newly reunited couple with an insistent, droning yet somehow pleasant chorus as Geralt frees one arm to push aside the underbrush while keeping the other tightly wrapped around Jaskier.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Neither man had been thinking clearly when they had chosen the woods as their destination, wanting only to get away from the prying eyes of the crowd as quickly as possible. They can wait no longer - there's only one way the building, burning tension between them can possibly end - but the chance of finding anywhere remotely comfortable to make love in the forest outside of Oxenfurt seems depressingly slim. (Not to mention the fact that, given that it was Midsummer's Eve, many other pairs had probably had the exact same idea and were already frantically coupling underneath the trees.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Which is why even Geralt, with all his years on the Path, is stunned speechless when they step around the base of a towering, ancient oak tree to find a perfectly deserted clearing. Soil and leaf litter give way to a carpet of lush, emerald-green grass, dotted here and there with brown mushrooms and yellow and white flowers. A curtain of tree limbs - proud oak, shielding pine, embracing willow - protects the little hideaway from view.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As they step onto the grass, Geralt's medallion hums. He has a sneaking suspicion regarding the possible source of their perfect little clearing. Yet, at this moment, he can't possibly bring himself to care.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt lays Jaskier down on the lush grass, diving in and claiming the bard's mouth once again. He tastes like sweet wine and summer sweat and something uniquely </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It's a taste that the witcher could quickly find himself becoming addicted to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier lets out a pleased hum as the witcher trails his lips down the long, curved column of the bard's neck. Geralt delights in every clearly audible noise he can tease from his love's lips and throat. His every gasp, every moan, every </span>
  <em>
    <span>breath </span>
  </em>
  <span>are music, and Geralt can hear each and every one of them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"S-</span>
  <em>
    <span>so,</span>
  </em>
  <span>" the bard gasps out, his nimble fingers making quick work of the buttons on Geralt's shirt. "A curse?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hmm," the witcher grunts. Talking about it means less time that he can spend kissing Jaskier, but the bard deserves to know. If they're going to be partners from now on, real, honest partners, he needs to be more truthful and open with Jaskier than he had previously been.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So the witcher whispers the truth of the situation against the bard's bare neck and chest as he divests him of his sinfully tight trousers. "Couldn't hear music. I mean, couldn't hear any </span>
  <em>
    <span>good </span>
  </em>
  <span>music. Worst of all, couldn't hear your singing. Bad stuff only - all these inaccurate songs about my eyes and body and uh, bed prowess. Was hell, stuck at Kaer Morhen all winter with that twit Valdo and his horrid screeching." Jaskier will appreciate hearing of Geralt's less than fond feelings towards  the other troubadour, he figures.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier lightly slaps Geralt's own chest, now equally bare. "I can't believe it, White Wolf! </span>
  <em>
    <span>Valdo Marx </span>
  </em>
  <span>got to visit Kaer Morhen before I did?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hmm. Yeah. But don't you worry, songbird. He won't be back - I heard he and Lambert had quite the falling out last spring. Meanwhile you'll be wintering there every year, if...if you want...if you don't have any other..."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier dives in and peppers Geralt's face with quick, light kisses, dotting his cheeks, his forehead, his chin and finally his lips. He whispers between pecks, "Yes, my wolf, a thousand times yes, I most certainly </span>
  <em>
    <span>do </span>
  </em>
  <span>want. I want..." His cheeks blush a most appealing red. "I want </span>
  <em>
    <span>so much, </span>
  </em>
  <span>witcher, so much that I can't possibly decide where to start."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt grins at that - dare he say </span>
  <em>
    <span>wolfishly - </span>
  </em>
  <span>and holds Jaskier's hips in a tight grasp as his gorgeous songbird writhes and squirms beneath him. He wants </span>
  <em>
    <span>so much</span>
  </em>
  <span> as well, but unlike the bard, he has a good idea of exactly where he'd like to begin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"So who cursed yo-</span>
  <em>
    <span>oh." </span>
  </em>
  <span>Jaskier's question is cut off as, with a single motion, Geralt pulls down both his sinfully tight breeches and smallclothes, leaving the gorgeous bard bare before his hungry yellow gaze.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Fae," Geralt growled. "Dunno when. Do know why." He runs rough, calloused hands up the seemingly endless length of Jaskier's legs, brushes a teasing finger against the tip of his already hard cock. It's red and flushed, standing proudly, and just looking at it makes heat coil and spark in Geralt's gut. He wants to </span>
  <em>
    <span>devour </span>
  </em>
  <span>his bard, starting with that glorious cock.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"W-why?" Jaskier stammers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Didn't appreciate you enough. Was being stupid. Needed to learn my lesson." He leans in and ghosts a breath over the sensitive head of Jaskier's length, teasing the bard, not quite touching him yet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"A-and have yo...</span>
  <em>
    <span>oh...</span>
  </em>
  <span>you, witcher dear?" Jaskier curls talented fingers in long white locks and </span>
  <em>
    <span>oh, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Geralt </span>
  <em>
    <span>likes </span>
  </em>
  <span>that, likes how the bard so willingly and openly touches parts of him that the rest of the world tends to shy away from.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks up, smirking, golden eyes locking with Jaskier's own. There's almost no blue left in the bard's heated gaze, the black of his pupils so large that Geralt feels he might just be swallowed up whole. "Think I just might have," he rumbles, before diving in and sealing his mouth around the bard's most sensitive part.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If Jaskier's lips had tasted like a sweet treat, then his cock was a </span>
  <em>
    <span>feast. </span>
  </em>
  <span>The salt of sweat and already dripping precum mix on his tongue as Geralt swallows Jaskier down, taking him to the very hilt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Seems I, </span>
  <em>
    <span>nnn, </span>
  </em>
  <span>got a confession of my </span>
  <em>
    <span>oh, oh, own, </span>
  </em>
  <span>then." Jaskier can barely speak as Geralt licks and sucks at his cock, but he forces the words out anyway, clearly having something important to say.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The witcher can't exactly speak with his mouth stuffed full of Jaskier's rather ample, erect length, so he gradually (and with more than a little reluctance) lets the perfect cock slide out of his mouth until just the tip rests against his lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hmm?" Geralt grunts, then remembers that he has promised himself to get better about actually talking things out with Jaskier. As distracting as his current pursuit is, he can't let himself break that promise so quickly. "What do you mean, songbird?" he asks before diving back in and licking in long strokes from base to tip.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"H-hard to talk when yo-</span>
  <em>
    <span>oh</span>
  </em>
  <span>-...when you..." gasps the bard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now Geralt lets himself be a little playful. "Too bad, cause I'm not gonna stop." He suckles on the head for a moment before relaxing his throat and letting Jaskier's cock slide in all the way to his very limits.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Geralt you feel....Oh you feel...oh Gera...Ger</span>
  <em>
    <span>aaaaaaaaalt</span>
  </em>
  <span>," and the witcher isn't mistaken when he thinks the bard deliberately </span>
  <em>
    <span>sings </span>
  </em>
  <span>the final word, his voice rising higher, louder and sweeter until he's sure the entire gathered crowd back on the field can hear them (not that Geralt particularly cares.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Last Midsummer...I...faerie ring...by mistake, played for...the Fae...gave me boon," Jaskier murmurs, struggling to get the words out between gasps and moans of pleasure as Geralt continues to suck his cock so deep that the troubadour feels he is resting within the witcher's very throat. Geralt's strong, scarred hands grasp Jaskier's hips, making a token (rather unsuccessful) attempt to hold the constantly moving man in place.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Asked for....Wanted....You." The admission hangs, trembling, in the warm night air. "Your appreci....</span>
  <em>
    <span>ah...</span>
  </em>
  <span>ation, your, your oh </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything, </span>
  </em>
  <span>ah, ah, Geralt Geralt </span>
  <em>
    <span>more yes more</span>
  </em>
  <span>!" What had begun as a fair attempt at a serious confession quickly devolves into wanton moans and cries of the witcher's name as Jaskier squirms under his hands and tongue and piercing golden gaze and tight, oh so </span>
  <em>
    <span>tight </span>
  </em>
  <span>throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Guess I....all...</span>
  <em>
    <span>ah...</span>
  </em>
  <span>all forthebest?" Jaskier manages to ask, the last string of words essentially slurring into one as Geralt grips harder, sucks deeper, presses lips and tongue tighter against the warm, throbbing length of his beloved bard.</span>
</p><p><span>Geralt laughs</span> <span>at that, actually </span><em><span>laughs, </span></em><span>full-throated and free, and, at the deep rumble of the witcher's joy, Jaskier comes, spilling himself into Geralt's throat. The white-haired man swallows every drop, his heightened senses relishing the taste and feel of Jaskier and the high, keening, </span><em><span>heavenly </span></em><span>noises the bard makes as he shivers and bucks through his orgasm.</span></p><p>
  <span>Jaskier flops bonelessly onto the unusually soft grass, his long, elegant limbs still twitching with the aftershocks of pleasure. Geralt, dizzy and sated with the taste of Jaskier on his lips and all down his throat, takes several moments before he becomes aware of his own predicament. He's still wearing his trousers, and the way the thick leather restricts his aching hardness is nothing short of pure torture. But Jaskier looks so peaceful, so comfortable all sprawled out like that, and it's not like he can...</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The White Wolf doesn't even get to finish that thought. Jaskier's clever fingers are at his waist, pushing his trousers down and off, and then his smallclothes after that, until the entirety of his scarred body is on display before the bard. For a moment, self-consciousness grips the witcher like a hand around his heart - this was the part where the whores always looked away, averted their eyes downward, hiding their disgust or horror behind a pretense of shyness...</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But this enchanted midsummer glen is no brothel and Jaskier is no paid strumpet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier </span>
  <em>
    <span>looks, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and Jasker </span>
  <em>
    <span>touches, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and, of course, as has always been the case, Jaskier </span>
  <em>
    <span>talks, </span>
  </em>
  <span>his musical voice keeping up a running commentary as he explores the witcher's body.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Gods, Geralt, I've wanted to get my hands on you like this ever since the first time I </span>
  <em>
    <span>saw </span>
  </em>
  <span>you. Touch you all over. Kiss each scar. Feel your muscles a bit, yeah, I'm not </span>
  <em>
    <span>blind, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you're....you're fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>gorgeous. </span>
  </em>
  <span>All those times I helped you in the bath, you don't </span>
  <em>
    <span>know </span>
  </em>
  <span>how hard it was not to just...to just...." He waves long-fingered hands in a spasmodic gesture that somehow manages to communicate exactly what the bard is currently thinking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Usually, Geralt isn't talkative in bed, but this is real and special and </span>
  <em>
    <span>Jaskier, </span>
  </em>
  <span>his bard finally here in his arms, touching him like he's something precious, something to be admired and loved and </span>
  <em>
    <span>worshiped. </span>
  </em>
  <span>The night and the mood and the heady atmosphere of the enchanted wood has him feeling </span>
  <em>
    <span>light, </span>
  </em>
  <span>feeling </span>
  <em>
    <span>free </span>
  </em>
  <span>in a way he hasn't in a long time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And so the witcher laughs again, open and rumbling and not stifled in the slightest. "Show me, then, songbird," he whispers into Jaskier's ear as the bard runs fingernails up and down his scarred back. "We've all night, and my body is as yours as my heart is. Why don't you show me exactly what you've been wanting to do." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Since the moment they first met in that tavern in Posada, Jaskier has never been one to back down from a challenge. The witcher feels Jaskier push at his shoulders, a surprising amount of muscle behind the motion, and Geralt tumbles to the ground, landing less than elegantly on his back. A scant moment later the bard is sitting astride his thighs, stroking his chest, tracing his scars, flicking a surprisingly sensitive nipple until </span>
  <em>
    <span>Geralt </span>
  </em>
  <span>is the one letting out moans that are almost a song.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier practically </span>
  <em>
    <span>slides </span>
  </em>
  <span>down the witcher's body, pressing kisses against his neck and chest as he goes. "Melitele's </span>
  <em>
    <span>tits, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Geralt." </span>
  <em>
    <span>Kiss. </span>
  </em>
  <span>"You taste so good." </span>
  <em>
    <span>Kiss. </span>
  </em>
  <span>"If your cock tastes as good as the rest of you..." </span>
  <em>
    <span>kiss. </span>
  </em>
  <span>"...then I can die a happy man."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A kiss to the tip of the aforementioned cock, then one to each of the powerful thighs framing it. "Which, by the way, did you get </span>
  <em>
    <span>bigger </span>
  </em>
  <span>since the last time I saw you in the bath? I knew you were enormous, witcher dear, but this...this is a </span>
  <em>
    <span>revelation</span>
  </em>
  <span>."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another one of those rumbling laughs shakes Geralt's chest. "Don't think I've ever been so turned on in my life," he admits, a little shyly. "Wanted you for a long time, songbird. Just...took me way too long to get my head out of my ass and admit that I did."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The slight embarrassment he feels at admitting that is immediately outweighed by the sun-bright smile which splits Jaskier's gorgeous features. "Oh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Geralt," </span>
  </em>
  <span>he hums, and for a moment, it seems as though even the bard's endless flow of words has been stolen from him. Then: "One such truthful admission deserves another, my beloved wolf. I've tugged myself off far too many nights fantasizing about getting your cock in my mouth."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt </span>
  <em>
    <span>could </span>
  </em>
  <span>say something but instead he smirks and makes the same little beckoning gesture with his hands that he had when encouraging the audience to sing along during his performance. Jaskier giggles, genuinely </span>
  <em>
    <span>giggles </span>
  </em>
  <span>at that, and then slips down just a bit further and slides that perfectly red, wet, mouth around the thick head of the White Wolf's cock.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The witcher knows that he's more than a little bit larger than average, but Jaskier takes him in without the slightest bit of fear or hesitation. The bard's mouth isn't just warm, it's practically </span>
  <em>
    <span>hot, </span>
  </em>
  <span>like he'd stuck his cock into a furnace that pleasured instead of burned. He looks down, and the sight of Jaskier's mouth stretched so widely around him is so perfect and lewd that Geralt almost loses himself right then and there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The bard pulls back, wiping pre-cum from his lips, and he already looks </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrecked. </span>
  </em>
  <span>"You taste good," he rasps, and Geralt can already hear a hint of hoarseness in that beautiful, melodic voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier leans down, his mouth opening as he prepares to dive back in for another taste, but Geralt stops him with a gentle yet forceful hand on the bard's shoulder. "Don't," he says, his tone laced with concern and affection both. "You'll ruin your lovely voice, and I've only just gotten to hear it again after so long."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The bard blushes at this, whether from Geralt's sincere care or from the witcher so openly complimenting his voice he cannot quite tell. "W-well, okay," he murmurs and </span>
  <em>
    <span>now </span>
  </em>
  <span>he sounds almost shy, his blue gaze suddenly unable to meet Geralt's golden one. "Th-there's somewhere else I could put my mouth, then.....i-if you'd allow it...."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a moment, Geralt can't quite comprehend what Jaskier might mean. He'd </span>
  <em>
    <span>heard </span>
  </em>
  <span>of such things, of course, gossiped about in brothels, but Jaskier couldn't possibly mean....couldn't possibly </span>
  <em>
    <span>want </span>
  </em>
  <span>to....to him?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At the stunned look on his witcher's face, the bard laughs, his chuckle a mix of startled and shy. "Why, Geralt, can it truly be that no one has ever offered to..."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The White Wolf cuts him off. "I'm lucky enough if I can find a whore who'll let me order the basics. I don't push my luck with...with special requests."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then Jaskier's hands are on his shoulders, quickly followed by Jaskier's arms encircling his chest as the bard hugs him tightly. "Oh, Geralt, my beautiful wolf, I must make up for all these years you've been wronged. Would you allow me to show you all the ways in which I want to touch you and taste you and devour you and worship you and spoil you as you so deserve?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The witcher chuckles, admittedly to cover up his own growing nerves. "Sure, but that sounds a little ambitious for our first night together."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now Jaskier is laughing too, and the knot of worry in the witcher's chest loosens as he sees his bard smile like Geralt himself had hung the moon and stars. "Then let me start here, love," he whispers and pushes down on Geralt's shoulders again so that the larger man is once again lying on the ground with the smirking bard hovering above him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Roll over," instructs Jaskier and the witcher complies. It feels slightly strange, his chest pressed against the springy grass, somewhat damp from dew and sweat and seed, but Jaskier is running strong, sure fingers over his ass, caressing it, massaging the taut muscles like he had on that long ago evening when Geralt's walls had first come down enough to allow the bard to soothe his aches with chamomile oil. (And oh, ever since that night, the mere scent of chamomile makes him hard, and he'll have to tell Jaskier that later, ask the bard if he still keeps that lovely vial on him at all times)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The bard touches with only his fingers at first, moving from massaging Geralt's tense muscles to slowly, gently, spreading his cheeks apart. Then Geralt feels Jaskier's hot breath </span>
  <em>
    <span>there, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and he's glad that his current position hides his face from Jaskier's view, because he had just rather suddenly discovered the fact that witchers </span>
  <em>
    <span>were </span>
  </em>
  <span>capable of blushing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At first, Jaskier's tongue is gentle and teasing, licking stripes along the revealed flesh, alternating short and long strokes so that Geralt is never quite able to expect what might be coming next. He trails circles around Geralt's hole, starting wide and then spiraling closer, smaller, </span>
  <em>
    <span>tighter.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Then the tip of the bard's tongue breaches the ring of muscle and he's </span>
  <em>
    <span>inside, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Jaskier is </span>
  <em>
    <span>inside </span>
  </em>
  <span>Geralt, moaning into him like the witcher is the most delectable thing he's ever tasted, and the year of alternating silence and discordant not-music was worth it just to be here, in this moment, with his bard under the sinking Midsummer sun.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt had already gotten pretty close just from sucking Jaskier off and tasting the bard's seed, so he knows he won't last long as the bard works magic with his tongue. A few flicks in and out, gentle not-quite-hybrids of licking and thrusting, and Geralt is </span>
  <em>
    <span>gone, </span>
  </em>
  <span>spilling onto the rich green grass with a cry of the bard's name on his lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His entire body is limp and boneless, the fuzzy post-orgasm haze setting in almost immediately, but the White Wolf's arms feel empty without a squirming, grinning bard in them. Summoning up what feels like an impossible amount of energy, Geralt rolls over once again, not caring about the smear of white which this leaves across his own stomach. He pulls Jaskier close, holding him, pressing kisses against his hair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Fuck, bard," he finally says, "That was...." He gropes around in climax-fuzzed mind for a proper word, but utterly fails to find one.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Luckily, the bard only laughs at his poor speechless witcher. "That good?" He traces lazy patterns - mostly hearts - in the spill of white decorating the witcher's chest, idly licking drops of come off of his fingers. "And you said </span>
  <em>
    <span>I </span>
  </em>
  <span>tasted good. This must be a side effect of all those potions and herbs, because you, Geralt, are a </span>
  <em>
    <span>treat</span>
  </em>
  <span>."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The witcher grunts, hiding his face in Jaskier's neck in embarrassment. "Won't be very good at it, never done this before, but can I....repay the favor?" He sucks a mark into Jaskier's collarbone, one that will not have even begun to fade by morning, and the bard moans as his witcher claims him.</span>
</p><p><em><span>"</span></em><span>Fuck yes you can, wolf,"</span> <span>the bard groans. "Don't care if you're....gods, just keep </span><em><span>talking </span></em><span>like that and I'll....again..."</span></p><p>
  <span>"Then get on stomach and lie down," Geralt suggests, pitching his voice absolutely as low as it can go.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No, thank you." In an unexpected (not to mention extremely arousing) display of confidence, Jaskier instead sits up, swinging a leg over the prone witcher's shoulders until he is straddling Geralt's face. As he nuzzles closer against the warm sensitive places between the bard's well-muscled legs, the white-haired man's heightened senses are completely overwhelmed by the scent and taste and feel of Jaskier. He's in heaven.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As he had warned the bard, Geralt is rather less than skilled in this particular area. But what he lacks in finesse he makes up for enthusiasm, determined to adore Jaskier exactly as the bard deserves. It's messy and sloppy and he's pretty sure he gets saliva absolutely </span>
  <em>
    <span>everywhere, </span>
  </em>
  <span>unsure quite how to devote himself to every part of the bard - cheeks, hole, balls, the underside of his rapidly hardening cock - which deserves attention.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Jaskier is definitely enjoying himself, bucking his hips practically nonstop and gently grinding down against Geralt's face. Even the slight scrape of the witcher's stubble against his sensitive inner thighs seems to bring Jaskier closer to ecstasy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"F-fingers, Ger</span>
  <em>
    <span>aaah</span>
  </em>
  <span>lt," the bard gasps. "N-need you to prepare me for that....fucking monster cock of yours."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Don't want to come just from my tongue?" the witcher asks, his voice muffled as Jaskier continues to ride his face. The bard's cock is leaking practically everywhere, and Geralt briefly wonders if it is in fact possible to literally drown in pleasure. He smells so </span>
  <em>
    <span>good. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Tastes so </span>
  <em>
    <span>good. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Geralt could easily stay like this forever.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'd love to, but not all of us here have witcher stamin...</span>
  <em>
    <span>aaaa.....ahhhhh</span>
  </em>
  <span>!" Jaskier writhes and bucks, seemingly on the edge of losing it right then and there. Those long, glorious legs tremble and tense as the bard fights off his impending orgasm. "Geralt. Fingers. In me. Now," he grits out between tightly clenched teeth, and Geralt learns with an interested twitch of his own cock that he likes it when Jaskier gets demanding.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He helps the bard onto his back, shamelessly licking his lips to savor the taste of Jaskier. The troubadour rolls his eyes, but the blush decorating his cheeks proves how affected he really is by his new lover's display.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt starts with one, sinking a single finger into Jaskier's tight, welcoming heat, but the bard's demanding streak is far from exhausted. "More, more, I can take it, </span>
  <em>
    <span>more</span>
  </em>
  <span>," he babbles, "gonna need more stretch than that if I'm going to take my witcher's cock."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Don't want to break-"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier presses an insistent finger against the witcher's lips. "Not gonna break me."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt can't resist responding with a lick and a playful nip at the finger in question, before relenting and beginning to slip another finger in next to the first. Once both fingers are in, he starts with short, shallow thrusts, his fingers mimicking the movements which his tongue had made just a few moments before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The cornflower-eyed troubadour is just as vocal as he's fucked on Geralt's fingers as he had been in the midst of a thorough wrecking from Geralt's tongue. "Oh, fuck, witcher dear, Geralt, wolf, you're perfect, I love you, I want you, love you, love, love</span>
  <em>
    <span>ahhh</span>
  </em>
  <span>, fuck fuck fuck fuck!" This earns another chuckle from the witcher - he knew Jaskier was rather feisty when provoked, but he had never so much as guessed that the bard could be quite so foul-mouthed when taken to bed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That's the idea," he murmurs, beginning to slick his cock with oil from the vial lying a few inches away from their entangled forms. His medallion - the only thing he's still wearing - buzzes and thrums against his chest, and Geralt realizes that he hadn't seen Jaskier pull the oil from his pack, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>he </span>
  </em>
  <span>definitely hadn't brought any of the stuff with him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It briefly crosses the White Wolf's mind that the oil might have been enchanted to feature some unique side effects, but he's far too desperate to get his cock inside Jaskier to stop and think about that. Whatever the oil was, and whoever had provided it, it was </span>
  <em>
    <span>perfectly </span>
  </em>
  <span>slick, and Geralt groans in pure, wordless pleasure as he removes his fingers and finally slides deep inside his bard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Mine," he growls, alternating between kissing and biting at the crook of the bard's neck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Y-yours," Jaskier agrees, twining his fingers in Geralt's hair as the witcher presses him into the grass and fucks him deeply, slowly, years of denied and ignored passion finally building up into a raging flame. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt had deliberately avoided touching Jaskier's sweet spot with his fingers, knowing how close the bard had been to reaching orgasm. Now, he deliberately aims for it, angling his hips and thrusting with careful precision.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier's wordless moans when he hits that perfect spot are pure poetry, the sweetest sound Geralt has ever heard in his life, and the words slip out before the witcher is even aware that he's saying them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Sing for me."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"W-ha</span>
  <em>
    <span>at</span>
  </em>
  <span>?" Jaskier half-asks, half-moans. "Dear wolf, you couldn't possibly be asking me to burst into 'Toss a Coin' while you make love to me....</span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>that what you're asking?"</span>
</p><p><span>Geralt hides his face in Jaskier's shoulder, more than a litle embarrassed but feeling too good to back down. "Meant your moans. Your...Melitele's swollen tits, Jaskier, your noises, they're like</span> <span>a song. Like every sound you make is music." He snaps his hips, thrusting even deeper, earning a throaty gasp from the bard which only further proves his point. "Missed it so fucking much."</span></p><p>
  <span>"Well, I'm more than happy to moan for you</span>
  <em>
    <span>-ooh, </span>
  </em>
  <span>witcher...but it's a pity you didn't mean the other thing, because I've suddenly stumbled upon some inspiration for a brand new verse." Wrapping his arms even more tightly around the witcher's broad back, the bard, panting and breathless, quietly begins to sing:</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"When a horny bard...graced a ride upon...Geralt of Rivia, along came this...so-</span>
  </em>
  <span>ohhh</span>
  <em>
    <span>ng...."</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>It will take many more nights beyond this one for Geralt to admit that, of all things, Jaskier breaking into a raunchy verse of "Toss a Coin" while the witcher was inside of him was what sent him over the edge. No sooner has the last note left Jaskier's lips when Geralt comes, filling his bard with rope after rope of searing hot seed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier had been close already, and he comes almost immediately afterwards, his spend joining Geralt's on the grass beneath their entwined bodies. Jaskier's hole clenches and </span>
  <em>
    <span>flutters </span>
  </em>
  <span>around Geralt's cock as he spills, drawing out the witcher's orgasm even further, wringing seed from him that he didn't even know he had left inside him to spend.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt moves to slip out of Jaskier, but the bard holds him close, mumbling something mostly incoherent that sounds vaguely like "Stay." The White Wolf holds his bard close, his softening cock still inside of Jaskier, and the lovers cling to each other as the last of the Midsummer sun finally disappears below the horizon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This time it takes both of them a little longer to recover. Even with his enhanced stamina, Geralt knows that his muscles are going to be sore all over. But it's worth it, he knows as he pulls Jaskier even closer. Because the bard with the world's most beautiful voice is finally, finally </span>
  <em>
    <span>his.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"It's full dark," the bard whispers after a while, his breath tickling Geralt's ear. "Midsummer's Eve is over, technically."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Doesn't mean our night has to be," Geralt whispers, gripping Jaskier's hips and rolling them over so that the bard was now sitting on top of him. "What was it you said in that new verse of your song? Something about riding upon me, wasn't it?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And </span>
  <em>
    <span>oh, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Jaskier does, taking control like it's the role he was born to play. Geralt, more than a little overwhelmed, simply lies back and watches, drinking in the sparkle in Jaskier's eyes, the way sweat pastes his hair to his forehead and the back of his neck, the rhythmic flex of his leg muscles as he rides the witcher like he was some sort of prize stallion. When he spills, he sings out Geralt's name low and sweet like those two syllables were some sort of prayer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt had thought that his first orgasm while inside Jaskier had been the most intense climax he had ever experienced in his rather long life. He soon learns that this was, in fact, not the case.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They make love again and again, there in the velvety darkness within their private enchanted glade. Geralt fingers Jaskier open while the bard strums his lute, playing all of the new songs he had composed during the year they had spent apart. Geralt finally gets to hear the much-vaunted "Her Sweet Kiss," and at first he thinks he doesn't like it, because the sorrow in the bard's voice makes his chest ache, but then Jaskier comes with a shout just as he sings "garroter, jury and judge" and Geralt decides he likes the song perfectly well.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The witcher determines to make Jaskier come with his tongue, as he hadn't been allowed to earlier. He spills completely untouched merely from the smell and taste of the bard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They fuck roughly, Jaskier tugging at Geralt's hair with each thrust. They follow this with a round of slow, sweet lovemaking, both trying to linger on the edge and draw out their orgasms as long as possible. (Neither man is quite successful, but it's an altogether enjoyable endeavor nonetheless.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sometime in the darkest hours of the morning, they roll over once again and Jaskier takes Geralt. The bard demonstrates his flexibility by hitting Geralt's prostate square-on with the very first thrust, and the White Wolf experiences his second hands-free orgasm of the night.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After only a little begging (and one particularly adorable pout) on the bard's part, Geralt sings a few lines of "Toss a Coin" while he's inside Jaskier. The effect it has on the bard is so sublime that Geralt privately resolves to overcome his embarrassment regarding his own voice so that he can do that again and again for his beautiful lover.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt takes Jaskier against a tree, then a second one because it looks even sturdier and more comfortable than the first. Jaskier takes Geralt on his knees, his hands never once leaving Geralt's hair the entire time. Despite the bard's earlier protestations that he lacks a witcher's enhanced stamina, there must be something in the enchanted night (or perhaps the mysterious oil) that affects the both of them, because they make love over and over and over again without stopping or tiring.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, after more rounds of sex in more ways and positions than either man can hope to count, they collapse next to each other on the grass, completely sated. Jaskier combs his fingers through Geralt's hair, gently removing the tangles which the snow-white mane had accumulated during their wild lovemaking. Geralt wraps an arm around his bard's waist, holding Jaskier to him as though he's never going to let go again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier hums a soft, wordless lullaby into Geralt's ear as the pair drifts off, and, despite the lack of pillow or blanket or bedroll, Geralt sleeps more deeply than he has in the entire preceding year.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>XXX</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They wake late in the morning, the sun's rays peeking through the canopy of foliage covering their private glen. Geralt blinks himself awake, humming contentedly as he leans over to plant a good morning kiss on his bard's cheek.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A flash of unexpected color catches his eye, and the witcher's eyes widen. He gently shakes his lover's shoulder. "Jaskier. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Look.</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gone is the emerald carpet of grass and scattered mushrooms which had greeted them the night before. The glade has bloomed overnight, surrounding the reunited pair with a circle of white and yellow buttercup flowers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The bard laughs, open and joy-filled and free. "I think the fae approve of this. Of us."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier's laugh draws an answering chuckle from his witcher. He picks a single buttercup, one of the yellow ones, gently tucking it behind the bard's ear. "Far be it from me not to take advantage of their approval and their kind gift," he murmurs, pulling Jaskier into his embrace once again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(They try their hardest not to crush any buttercups during their amorous activities. They're not entirely successful, but Geralt is pretty sure that the Fae are too satisfied with the outcome of everything to mind.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another Midsummer's Eve has come and gone. The damage has healed, the curse is broken, and the witcher and his bard are together at last, ready to embark on a new Path forward, one filled with laughter and joy and love - and, above all, music.</span>
</p>
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